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THE SECRET WOMAN 



THE SEOEET 
WOMAN 

A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS 



BY 

EDEN PHILLPOTTS 



NEW YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1914 



6 fir 



^^^'' 



Printed in Great Britain 
By BaUantyne S) C», Ltd, London 



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7- / 

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CHARACTERS 



> his sons 



loho came to the meeting of 
Mr. Wcstaiuay's crcditois 



Anthony Redvebs, of Barter Farm 

Jesse Redvers 

Michael Redvers 

Nathaniel Tapp ^ , , ^ , 

^ ^ V labourers at Ha.rter 

Joshua Bloom / 

William Aescott, veterinary surgeon 

Joseph Westaway, of Watchett Hill Farm 

Toby Hannaford 

Ned Peaen 

Half a Dozen Other Men 

And Two Women 

A Police Inspector and 

Two Constables 

Ann 'R'E'DYE'RS, ivife of Antho7ii/ 

Baebaea Westaway 'i , . . ^ , rrr , 

-,^ r daughters of Joseph H est away 

Salome Westaway j -^ -^ ^ ^ 

Sarah Tapp, ivife of Nathaniel 

(One year passes hetvxen Act II and Act III) 

The scene is in and near Harter Farm in the Dartmoors 



CAST OF THE 
THE KINGSWAY 
FEBRUARY 20th, 

Anthony Kedveks 
Jesse Redvees 
Michael Redvees 
Nathaniel Tapp 
Joshua Bloom 
William Aescott 
Joseph Westaway 
Toby Hannapoed 
Ned Peaen 
Police Inspectoe 
Ann Redvees 
Baebaea Westaway 
Salome Westaway 
Saeah Tapp 



FIRST PRODUCTION AT 
THEATRE, ON TUESDAY, 
1912 

Claude King 

HUNTEE NeSBIT 

Haeold Chapin 
E. H. Pateeson 
William Faeeen 
Hoeace Hodges 
Chaeles Daly 
J. E. Daniels 
Allan Wade 
Tom Mowbeay 
Janet Achuech 
Esme Hubbaed 
Ieis Hoey 
Mes. a. B. Tapping 



ACT I 

Scene : The hitchen ofRarter Farm in the Dartmoor s, 
A white-washed room with large, open hearth, on which 
a jire hums. A flight of stone steps descends into 
the kitchen. At hack, open two loindows with deep 
embrasures, wherein are set pots of geraiiiums and 
succulent plants. On the left there stands a tall 
dresser with ^ willow pattern^ and other blue and 
white crockery. Beside the staii^s, there stands a 
' grandfather ' clock. From the ceiling suspend 
hams, tied up in canvas, and a few huiiches of 
herbs in muslin bags. Upon the mantelshelf are 
arranged various bright canisters of tin and brass 
and a piece of ornamental crockery at each end. 
Above, against the wall, hang a gun and a whijy or 
two on a rack, a pair of spurs, and an old pouiider- 
flask. On one side of the mantelshelf hangs a fox 8 
mask with a grocer's almanac under it; on the 
other side, a stvffed badger in a glass case. Upon 
the hearth are pots and pans. A long, bare, deal 
table runs doivn left of centre and benches stand on 
each side of it. There is a smaller table between 
the windows with a board andj rolling-pin, a flour - 
djfedger and a ^ar or two upon it. A pail, brooms 



2 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

and clusters litter the Jloor. A settle stands at 
right angles to the fire. 

[Joshua Bloom and Sarah Tapp discovered. 

Bloom. The days of peace are over. 

Sarah. \Rolling pastry ^^ That's like you men ! 
That's the thanks a woman gets. The missis goes to 
nurse her sick mother and all of us be sheep without 
the shepherd while she's away. Yes, all of us, Joshua 
Bloom — from her husband downward. And now, 
because she's coming back 

Bloom. You know what I mean. 

Sarah. Yes, I know. A woman like Ann Bedvers 
do gall the common sort a bit. You want to be fine 
yourself to mark her fineness. 

Bloom. Well, you'd best to tidy up this here rogue's 
roost of a kitchen afore she comes home, else you'll 
hear more about her fineness than like. [A whistling 
heard,] Hark to master ! When she's away, he 
wants her home again ; when she's home, he'll soon 
want her away. 

[Unter Anthony Redvers. 
Redvers. William Arscott be riding down the hill, 
Joshua. Get over to him and take him to the stable. 
The mare's better since morning by the look of her. 

[Uxit Bloom. 

Sarah. Lucky for her ! I pity any beast that gets 

into that hateful boss doctor's hands. He's harder 

than moorstone — that man — for the granite lets the 

moss live on it. 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 3 

Red VERS. You're not fair to him, Sarah. He's 
only hard outside. 

Sarah. Hard, hard all through. We women know. 
Ax Barbara Westaway. 

Redvers. She might have done worse than take 
him when he offered ; for, if she had, the family 
wouldn't be in such a tight place as it is now. 

Sarah. 'Twill be the workhouse for 'em all. 

Redvers. Nonsense, nonsense ! They've some good 
friends yet. And the girls are both fighters. Where's 
Jesse and Michael got to ? 

Sarah. Michael have gone to catch a trout for his 
mother's tea. Jesse's reading by the waterfall. 

Redvers. Dash that chap ! He'll be reading when 
the Trump of Doom sounds. 

Sarah. Same as you'll be whistling, master. 'No 
doubt each human creature will be surprised following 
out his habits. And that's a sure reason why us 
should have good habits and not bad. Not much 
hope for them as be catched red-handed in wickedness 
at the Last Trump. 

Redvers, You preach another time, Sarah, or you'll 
be catched red-handed in this muck of a kitchen. 'Tis 
the missis, not the Last Trump be coming. [Enter 
Jesse with book.] You'd best to put that book 
away, Jesse, and buzz about. Mother'U be home 
by tea-time and I've got fifty things to do yet afore 
then. [To Sarah.] Has Nathaniel started with the 
trap? 

Sarah. He was away an hour agone. 



4 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

Jesse. I met Barbara Westaway this morning, 
father. The Westaways are coming over presently. 
Red VERS. Ah ! 

Jesse. They know that mother's due back, and 
they're set on bringing a Httle gift to mark her 
home-coming. 

Redvers. [Whistles while Jesse sjyeaks, and goes on 
whistling a few notes after he has finished. Suddenly 
he stops and speaks.^ How would it do if we asked 'em 
to tea ? 

Jesse, Why not ? 

Sarah. Haven't you got more sense ? Be it Ukely 
that missis will want a pack of strangers ? 
Jesse. They're not strangers. 

Redvers. Sarah's right all the same. 'Twouldn't 
do. [Passes fioivers in vjindowJ] I wish that geranium 
had blowed for her — the white one she's so fond of ; 
but flowers don't care no more for people than bees do 
for Sunday. [Exit ivhistling. 

[Jesse sits down hy the fire and lolls hack with 
his hands in his pockets and a pipe in his 
mouth. He takes a feather from a tin of 
feathers on the mantelshelf and cleans his 
pijye. 
Sarah. Now don't you sit caddling there, Jesse — it 
ban't the time for it. I want your room, not your 
company. 

Jesse. There's an hour yet. 

[Enter Michael. 
Sarah. Hast caught a fish for mother, Michael ? 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 5 

Michael. Yes, I have — a whacker; a good half- 
pound he runs. She'll have it fresh as fresh. I 
be going up over to meet the trap in a minute. 

Sarah. 'Tis a red-letter day. I always vow that 
this house be like a corpse without her. 

[She begins to tidy up, and Michael helps her 
for a time. 
Michael. So 'tis then ; father's nought when she's 
away. All he does be to make bad bargains. 'Tis 
my mother has the brains, Sarah. 

\Stops helping Saeah, takes a whip from the 
bracket above the fireplace and prepares to 
mend it at the table. To do so he brings 
cobbler's ivax and ivhipcord from a draiver 
in the dresser, 

Jesse. [Shutting his book and flinging it across 
into the settle.^ That's foolishness, Michael. I know 
mother's wiser than the run of women, and watchful 
for father, and a saint of God if you like; but in 
brains — no. Father's first there. 

Michael. I like father well enough — as well as you 
like mother anyway ; but mother's the light of this 
house. And if you be going to speak against mother, 
Jesse, don't you do it afore me. I care for her better 
than you do, and you're jealous of me, because she 
loves me best. 

Sarah. Hush, you boys ! Go an' get your fish, 
Michael, and be quiet. 



6 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

Michael. I won't hear mother run down hy him, or 
anybody on God's earth. 

Jesse. B'you think I mind because mother likes 
you best ? Why, 'tis the proper thing. You're all 
mother through and through — save in wits. And I'm 
father over again. He understands me. 

Michael. If he do, you're about the only thing he 
does understand. 

Jesse. [Starting u}:).^ You're a wicked rascal to say 
that ! But you shan't anger me with with your 
trash. I see your game ; you want to drive me 
out of my father's house and be free of me. Well, it 
may happen that way. I don't love Harter, and I 
don't love you. 

Michael. [Passionately throiving down his whip.] 
Jesse, Jesse ! You'll drive me mad ! Ban't you my 
elder brother ? God, He knows I never thought of 
such a thing — never. 

Jesse. Oh, shut up — here's Arscott. 

[£nte7' William Arscott. 

Arscott. Where's the whistling man ? 

Michael. Gone to look for the ho£S-doctoring man, 
I reckon. 

Jesse. Father was here a minute ago. 

Arscott. Well, give me a drop of cider and then 
I'll away. Can't wait for him. 

[Exit Sarah scowling at Arscott, 

Michael. They don't call you Busy Billy for 
nothing, Mr. Arscott. 

Arscott. No, my son, they do not. I'll send over 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 7 

a ball for the mare. Theie's notliicg much wrong. 
Don't work her till I've seen her again. 

Michael. [Looking at Jesse.] Father thought she 
was going to die. 

[^Enter Sarah with jug and mug on tray. 

Aescott. And you'd like to put a pinch of poison in 
it, wouldn't you, Mrs. Tapp ? 

Sarah. I say you're hard and I know you're hard. 

Arscott. Must be 'ard if you want to be 'appy. 
Good luck, ma'am, I'd sooner have this tap than yours. 

[Michael laughs. Arscott drinks. Eedvers' 
whistle is heard^ He enters as Arscott 
puts down mug. 

Arscott. [Shakes hctndsi\ Well, Red vers, your mare 
ban't going home this time. 

Redvers. Bother the mare, Billy; what's this I 
hear tell about Joe Westaway ? 

Arscott. How should I know ? That he's a silly 
old fool and wants it bobh ways, perhaps. But you 
can't eat your cake and have it too. 'Tis time a few 
of us saw our money. 

Redvers. Don't you be too short with the man. 
He's done a lot of good in his time. 

Arscott. If you was a creditor, you wouldn't be so 
large-minded. 

Michael. 'Tis all very well to give the children 
pennies, when you're owing the fathers pounds. 
That's what Mr. Westaway does. 

Arscott. [To Michael] Ah ! You're the chap for 



8 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

me ! Money's money, and he's got to face the music 
— like the rest of us. 

[Exit ivith Michael. Jesse goes hack to his 

book. 

Sarah. A holy terror that man ! He'd sell the 

primrosen off" his mother's grave. Poor old Joe 

won't have a shirt to his back when Arscott have done 

with him. 

[Picks up broom and dusters and goes upstairs. 
Redvers. There's no credit for being generous 
now-a-days. In fact there's no credit for anything. 

Jesse. [Putting down book.] Why does mother like 
Michael better than me, father ? 
Redvers. Stuff" and nonsense ! 
Jesse. He's little better than a fool sometimes. 
RedverSc Michael's no fool. He's your mother 
again. You and me ban't quite so hard at the edges 
as mother and Michael — more like to be broken in 
consequence. [WTiistles gently. 

Jesse. I don't care — so long as I am your favourite. 
Redvers. There's the Westaways ! [Goes to the 
door as the Westaways pass the window.] Come in, 
come in. [B^e throios open the door. 

[Enter Joseph Westaway, loith Barbara and 
Salome behind hitn. 
Redvers. Why ! Here's a fine sight for sore eyes ! 
How's yourself, flock-master ? 

[Both Jesse and Anthony shoio great pleasure. 
They all shake hands. 
Westaway. Under the weather a bit and I won't 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 9 

deny it. 'Twill come right no doubt, but the means 
be hid from me for the minute. No matter about my 
troubles. Your missis be coming home, so nought 
would do but Salome must pick her a gert bunch of 
bluebells and Barbara fetch along a brave pair of 
ducks. 'Tis coals to Newcastle, as I told 'em. 

[Jesse takes the ducks from Barbaea and the 
hlueh ells from Salome. 

Redvees. Far from it, Joe. She'll be properly 
pleased, I promise you. 

Jesse. We'll get some water for these, Salome. 

Salome. Will this jug do ? 

[Goes to dresser and takes a jitg from it. 

Jesse. Mother's fond of bluebells. 

[Exeunt Jesse and Salome. 

Westaway. [Sitting in armchair hy the fire, as 
Redvees directs.] Far be it from me to throw a 
shadow on the day ; but things be at a climax to 
Watchett Hill, my dear. 

Redvees. So I hear ; and I don't believe it. 

Baebaea. You ask Busy Billy. 

Westaway. Who'd have thought such things could 
hap ? A good while ago we was cornered for money 
here and there, and so I just up and signed a few 
documents. 'Twas as easy as shelling peas, Anthony, 
and I made up my mind, very steadfast from that 
moment, that my beautiful girls shouldn't be pinched 
— not so long as I could put my hand to a document. 

Redvees. A pity 'twas Arscott you went to. 

Westaway. Why ? The man thought the world of 



10 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

me and my family. He oflered ten year ago for 
Barbara ! 

Barbara You didn't ought to mention it, father. 

Redvers. Everybody knows it, my dear. 

Westaway. And he kept single for ever after, 
because she couldn't do with him. But I could ; and 
knowing him for a very deep and clever chap, where 
money was the matter, I went to him, 'in a large 
spirit, and he met me in the same — so I thought at 
the time. 

Barbara. Three hundred we borrowed from him 
on a mortgage. 

Westaway. And now the money have mounted up 
something shocking. 

Redvers. Didn't you pay no interest ? 

Westaway. Certainly I'd meant to do so. But it 
slipped my memory, along of one thing and another, 
and he was too much the gentleman, as I thought, to 
name it. And what with standing him treat at 
'The Hearty Welcome' and 'The Green Man' — 
scores and scores of times ; and what with sending 
him many and many a good goose and turkey ; and 
what with fresh eggs and a bit o' cream and so on, I 
thought it would turn out all right. Then, being un- 
common short, I offered to put my hand to another 
document again — last week 'twas — and, to my sur- 
prise, Master Billy went so nasty as a rat in a trap 
and forgot all about they geese and turkeys and free 
drinks and all ! Properly mazed I was. You see 
my interest have gone on compounding all by itself. 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 11 

That's the worse of money ! it won't stand still. It 
always runs from you, or to you. 

Redvers. True enough, Joe. 

Barbara. And now father v/ill mighty soon be a 
flock-master without any flock. 

Westaway. And a farmer without any farm. 

Redvers. 'Tis a thousand pities you let the interest 

go- 
Westaway. So 'tis then. And us have got to take 

the boots and shoes out of the bread-and-butter at 

Watchett Hill in consequence — ain't we, Barbara ? 

But next year will see us righted, I hope. We be 

going to retrench. 

Barbara. If there was vartue in a word, we'd soon 
be easy. 'Tis ' retrench ' with father from morn 
till night now. 

Redvers. The thing is to do it. 

Westaway. Dallybuttons ! And don't I do it ? Like 
a hawk I be grown. Why, I'll snap the sugar-basin 
ofl* the table if I think my maidens be making too 
free — aye, and the teapot, too ! I tell 'em to go out 
in the hedges and gather marjoram and brew herby 
tea — same as our grandmothers did. 

Barbara. Billy Arscott's the danger. The others 
be a kindly lot. 

[Jesse enters with Salome. Both are downcast. 

Westaway. I don't want mercy nor nothing like 
that. I've gived and gived all my life, Redvers, and 
if there's none to give to me in my turn — why, I can 
go without. I'm a patient old blade, as we all should 



12 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

be at seventy ; but justice — ^justice I've a right to 
claim. 

Jesse. Just the one thing you can take your oath 
you won't get, Mr, Westaway. 

Westaway. Don't you be so acid at your time of 
life, my son. 

Redvers. [Impulsively^ after looking at Salome.] 
Well, come in here with me, Joe — in my workshop. 
I'm wishful to hear a bit more about this. Don't you 
go, you girls ; I shan't keep him long. [Aside to 
Salome.] Bide a bit. 

Barbara. Where's Mrs. Tapp to ? 

Redvers. She's busy sweeping and garnishing. The 
missis was due at Okehampton afore five. Tapp's 
off to fetch her. Come on, Joe. 

Jesse. Sarah's up over, Barbara. 

Barbara. Then I'll run and see her. [Goes upstairs. 

Redvers. This way, master. 

[Exeunt Redvers and Westaway. 

Salome. There, mind you tell her I picked 'em for 
her. 

[Puts jug of bluebells on table. 

Jesse. You don't answer me — you must do that at 
least, Salome. You know how things are with me. 
It's like coming alive out of death when I'm alone 
with you for a moment. Oh, Salome, why not, my 
pretty bird ? But you say nought — and no news isn't 
good news when a chap's courting. 

Salome. [Treating Jesse as if he icere a boy.] I'm 
not for a husband, my dear. We must be sensible. 



J 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 13 

'Tis all the poor can be. No time to think about 
marrying. My sister and me have got to keep father 
out of the workhouse somehow. 

Jesse. If I could only help ! 

Salome. You can't. None can, so we must stir 
ourselves. 

Jesse. If I had money ! 

Salome. If — if ! Nobody's got no money here, but 
Arscott. He's made of it. 

Jesse. My father's well to do. 

Salome. Long may he bide so. 

Jesse, I hope Arscott will be generous. 

Salome, Not him ! I reckon my father can show 
him where that road leads. 

Jesse. I'm such a useless brute. 

Salome. Don't you say that. You've got plenty of 
brains — if you'd but use 'em. 

Jesse. Salome, would twenty pounds be any use ? 

Salome. No, nor yet fifty. Keep your savings. 

Jesse. I feel I could do things, if I were once out 
of this place. 'Tis like a prison to me sometimes. If 
it wasn't for you here — and father. 

Salome. You can't do wiser than stick to him, and 
forget me. 



Jesse. Mother's so 

Salome. Yes — I understand. Well — she'll be here 
and wish us at Jericho in a minute. [Eising.] You've 
said some pretty things to me, Jesse, and I'm sure 
you meant them ; but I'm not the marrying sort, I 
must be free, 



14 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

Jesse. \Gloomily.'] The likes of you don't go free 
for long. 

Salome, I'm far off what you think. There's a lot 
of the devil in me, Jesse. 

Jesse. You wake the devil in others. You're an 
angel yourself — all — all angel — to the dinky dimple 
at the corner of your mouth. [Salome smiles, hut not 
at him.] I'll win you yet ! I'll live to do some mighty 
big thing, and make you love me ! 

[Sarah and Barbara descend the stairs. 

Salome. Then set about it. Stop reading books 
and go into the world. You're all boy still. 

[Exit Jesse. 

Barbara. 'Tis no use saying them things against 
the vetinary, Mrs. Tapp. William Arscott lent 
father good money on the farm at a very ticklish 
time ; and now he wants it again; as we all well knew 
he would. And why not ? Who shall blame him ? 
I don't for one. The man's honest, and we must be 
the same. 

Sarah. A saint of God like your father ! Anybody 
did ought to be proud to lend him money — and forget 
it. 

[Enter Redvers and Westaway. 

Westaway. 'Tis more, far more than I can ask or 
expect, Anthony. 

Redvers. Stuff and rubbish. Wouldn't you help 
me at a pinch, if it had been t'other way round ? 

Westaway. List, you girls. 'Tis an answer to 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 15 

prayer. Redvers be going bail for me ! He will do 
it, though I beg him not. 

Barbara. You can't, Mr. Redvers — 'tis out of 
reason. 

Redvers. Right's better than reason, Barbara. 
You very well know what your father and you girls 
be to me. Not another word. I'll see Hannaford 
to-morrow, and Arscott too, 

Barbara. [To Sarah.] What'U Mrs. Redvers say ? 

Sarah. [Going off ivith rolling-pin and hoard, c&c.] 
Same as your father : that 'tis an answer to prayer. 

[Exit. 

Barbara. We can't thank you. 'Tis high above 
thanks. 

Redvers. I^m properly glad to do it. 

Westaway. You'll reap your reward in this world, 
as well as the next, my son. For 'twill pay you, 
Anthony — over and above the kindness and goodness 
and Christian charity and the blessing of it — beyond 
all that, there's theinterest, and you'll be just so much 
amazed as I was to see the way that jumps up. 
Pounds and pounds in your pocket in no time ! 

Barbara. Come on home, father. Mrs. Redvers 
will be back before you've done talking. 

Westaway. Good-bye ; good-bye, my dear man ; 
and God bless you and reward you. 

Barbara. We can only feel it. 

Salome, I'll come after. I want to tell Mr. Redvers 
about they ponies Tom Bassett takes to market next 
week. 



16 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

Redvers. Good-bye — good-bye. Let your minds 
be easy. Everything's going all right. 

[Barbara and Mr. Westaway go out. 

Redvers. [Looks round to see they are alone,] lora, 
I thought I was never going to get a glimpse of my 
precious girl ! 

[Puts his arms round Salome. 

Salome. Take care, Tony. Where's Sarah ? You 
darling man to help 'em ! But can you — can you do 
this for father and not hurt your own ? 

Redvers. Of course I can, and proud to do it ! 
The money's safe enough in the long-run, if I take 
over the mortgage and the life insurance from Arscott. 
Leave that. 

Salome. I couldn't speak when I heard, because I 
knew so well 'twas for me you'd done it. 

Redvers. What better reason ? Be all safe for 
Thursday ? 

Salome. Of course it be. 

Redvers. At the broom patch. There's a full 
moon. 

Salome. I'll be there. Whistle and I'll come to 
you, Tony. I'll come singing — and love to come — 
always — always ! 

Redvers. My little armful of joy ! 

[2'akes her in his arms again. 

Salome. [Sings ' Widecomhe Fair' very so/tly for 
fiis ear alone ^ 

" Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare, 
All along, clown along, out along lee, 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 17 

For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair, 
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney." 

• Redvees. [Sings softly.] 
'' Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk ! " 

Salome. 

" Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all— 
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all ! " 

Redvers. I love that song better'n any music on 
earth ! It means you — you dinky, grey-eyed thing ! 

Salome. Our fun's over for a bit I reckon. A 
heavenly time we've had, Tony ! 

Redvers. Better'n heaven, Sally. There won't be 
no Halstock Glen in heaven. There won't be no little 
holt for you and your old red fox in heaven. 

Salome. [Kisses him.] Ban't you tired of me ? 

Redvers. When I'm tired of my life — not sooner. 

Salome. Are you glad she's coming home ? 

Redvers. Yes, I am. I think the wdde world of 
Ann, and you know it. She's a grand woman — a 
wonder among women. She did ought to come home 
happy, for she's nursed her mother into life again 
after she was given up by the doctor. Please God all 
will go smooth, as I like it to. We can live our .lives 
but once, and 'tis a sad pity to see a woman so stern 
and hard with herself as Ann. Terrible high-minded 
and religious is she. 

Salome. Darkness to your light. ... If she 
knew. . . . 

Redvers. I feared once, but I don't now. What 

B 



18 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

the heart don't guess, the soul don't smart for. She'll 
never know. 

Salome. Jesse offered marriage to me again by the 
waterfall just now. 'Tis like hearing a child chirrup 
about love — after knowing a man's. 

Redvers. I must rattle up Jesse and make him 
tackle life. He's always mooning over his books. 
[Embraces her.] Well, get going. [Kisses her.] Till 
Thursday. I'll make a snug nest for my li'l dor- 
mouse ! 

[She goes off and Redvers walks to the door 
and watches her ivith happiness in his eyes. 
He whistles * Widecomhe Fair ' gently. He 
then returns to the kitchen and begins to 
help in the business of making it tidy. 

[Enter Sarah. 

Redvers. Don't you say nothing about that matter 
of helping Joe Westaway, Sarah. 

Sarah. [Takes tablecloth from drawer in the dresser 
and begins to prepare for tea on the long table.] 'Tis no 
business of ours. You'll tell your wife when you 
choose. [Enter Bloom. 

Bloom. The trap be in sight up 'pon top of the hill, 
master ! 

Redvers. I'll run out then. Put they bluebells in 
the midst of the table, Sarah. They'll please her 
tremendous. [Exit. 

Bloom. He's like a play-actor, that man. Be 
damned if he ain't fooling himself he wants her back ! 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 19 

Sarah. You bitter-weed ! Here, take they pots 
and get 'em out of the way, and fill the kettle. 

Bloom. [Staring round.'] My stars ! The kitchen 
ain't looked like this since she went out of it. 

\Exit with a pot or two, the kettle and a sauce- 

pan from the hearth. Enter Michael, he 

carries some hand luggage. 

Michael. Here she is — here's mother, Sarah. 

And she's so thin as a herring and pale as a lily. But 

she's all right ! She's all right ! 

[Enter Tapp ivith a yellow tin box. There follow 
him Ann Redvers and Redvers. 
Ann. [Coming down and watching Tapp tahe her box 
icpstairs.] Be careful at the corner, Nat. If that box 
touches the wall, 'twill leave an ugly mark we're 
better without. [Exit Tapp upstairs.] And how are 
you, Sarah ? [Shakes hands with Mrs. Tapp.] You're 
looking pretty well and feel so, I hope. All be suent 
and vitty, I see. 

[Tahes in the room swiftly. Her manner 
is quichy sharp and apprehensive. 
Sarah. We've done our bestest. The house be 
water-sweet from top to bottom. 

Redvers. Sarah's been up at cock-light this week 
past, and everyone of us has lent a hand. 

Michael. Never was a properer spring-cleaning, 
mother. [Exit. 

Ann. We shall see as to that. [Her eyes are every 
where.] 'Tis good to be back. But how much to do 
Where's Jesse ? He did ought 



20 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

Redvers. [Aside to Ann.] He's about, but he's down 
on his luck. There's a reason. I'll whisper it come 
presently. [jEnte7' Jesse. 

Jesse. Ah ! mother dear ! [Takes off his hat and 
kisses her] You look but poorly though, and pale and 
tired. 

Ann. I've only got the headache along of the train. 
A cup of tea will cure it. Be you all right ? 

[Enter Bloom vnth kettle. 

Bloom. Good evening, missis. I hope I see you 
pretty clever. 

Ann, Nicely, Joshua, nicely. And your rheumatics ? 

Bloom. Worse and worse, ma'am. They do gnaw 
my bones, like a hungry dog of a night. 

[Mrs. Bedvers moves about ; her eyes perceive 
everything. All are solicitous to please her. 

Ann. Take them bluebells off the table and out of 
that jug, Sarah. That's the one I don't use. 'Tis 
worth money. 

Jesse. Salome Westaway brought the bluebells for 
you, mother.] 

Ann. Very kind of her. The window-sill's the 
place for them — not the tea-table. [Sarah moves 
flowers and puts them into another jug.] The plants 
do look a bit thirsty to my eyes. 

Bedvers. Don't you trouble about them. They're 
all right. 

Ann. " Don't trouble ! " That's your old motto, 
father. I don't want to hear that. [Tapp descends the 
staircase with a piece of rope.] I'll go and take off my 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 21 

hat and then tea will be ready. Don't you cook 
nothing for me ; I'm off my food just now. 

Kedvers. My life, that won't do ! 'Tis time and 
more'n time you was home again. 

Ann. [Going up staircase.'] More'n time, as you say, 
father. 

[Redvers follows her with hand luggage and a 
parcel or two. 
Ann. [Turning^ Leave 'em there, I'll go through 
'em presently. Just a little gift or two for all of 'e. 
I shan't be two minutes. 

Tapp. I've took the rope off the box, missis. 
Ann. Put it by in the loft. 'Tis new. I want you, 
Sarah. 

[She goes icjjstairs. Sarah follows her, Tapp 
goes out and Bloom follows him. Redvers 
turns to exit whistling. 
Jesse. What's upset the apple-cart now ? Was it 
my fault ? 

Redvers. She's only tired and full of thoughts 
what to do first. 

Jesse. And what to undo that we've done to please 
her. 

Redvers. Nay, nay. Her quick eye taketh in so 
much more than we men know about. 'Tis only the 
headache j she'll come round presently. 

[JSnter SARAn/rom upstairs and Michael with 
a frying-pan and a fish, 
Michael. Where's the fat, Sarah ? 'Tis time as I 
cooked my trout for mother. 



22 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

Sarah. Missis will be down house in a minute and 
the water's near boiling. [Goes off. 

Redvers. Brew it strong, Sarah ; brew it strong. 
[Exit ivhistling with Jesse. Sahah returns 
with some grease for the fish on a plate and 
Michael puts it upon the fire, 

Sarah. I doubt she'll eat it, Michael. 

Michael. Yes, she will — when she hears tell that 
I've catched it and cooked it for her. Don't forget 
the water-cresses. 

Sarah. There ! If I hadn't. \She goes off'. 

Michael. [Shouting.'] Mother, be you coming ? I've 
got a brave trout frying for 'e. 

Ann. [Upstairs.] I'm down in a moment, Michael 
boy. 

Michael. [Shouting.] 'Tis damn fine to hear your 
beautiful voice again, mother ! 

Ann. [At top of stairs.] Don't you use them bad 
words, my dear. 

[Descends the stairs. She has taken offf her hat 
and jacket. 

Michael. Look at this gert fish waiting for you to 
eat 'un ! 

Ann. I doubt I can eat it. I be off my food for 
the minute. 

Michael. [Takes fish off the fire and rises ^ You 
must eat it, mother. You be wisht. [Looks at her 
closely.] There's something fretting you. Don't tell 
me there isn't, for I know it. 

Ann. Yes, I'm a bit worried. 



ACT I THE SECRET WOMAN 23 

Michael. Tell me. 

Ann. [^Smiling for the first time.] What a chap for 
finding out your mother's secrets ! 

Michael. I'll bet 'tis some of father's secrets more 
like. 

Ann. His secrets be all meant so well that I haven't 
the heart — but there 'tis — his surprises — buying 
ponies and one thing and another — they mostly come 
out wrong side the ledger. 

Michael. He's got ponies on the brain still. 

Ann. 'Tisn't that — but— well, I'd best think no 
more about it. 

Michael. All's well now you be home again. 
You'll soon steady father down. 

Ann. [Laughs.] I'd be a cleverer woman than I am 
to do that. 

Michael. Cleverer than you be ! I'd like to see 
the cleverer woman than you. 

Ann. [JVow in good temper.] You flatterer ! You'll 
be a fine love-maker some day, Michael. 

Michael. I shall never see a girl like you to fall 
in love with, mother. 

[Ann smiles and goes to table. Sarah enters 
with wafer-cress and plate for fish. 
Michael brings his fish to the table, Sarah 
then goes to door, 

Sarah. [Galling.] Tea — ^tea — ^tea be ready ! 

[Tapp and Bloom enter and take their places at 
the table. 



24 THE SECRET WOMAN act i 

Tapp. You do look a thought pinnikiii and poor 
like, missis. 

Ann. Along of that stufiy Exeter, Nathaniel. 
Nobody has their fair share of air in a town, I reckon. 
[Unter Redvers and Jesse. Michael takes 
his place beside his mother , who sits at the 
top of the table. Sarah sits on Michael's 
left. Jesse goes to the left of his mother 
and Redvers takes the bottom of the table. 
The tea pot is before Mrs. Redvers. 
Sarah. Shall I pour for 'e, ma'am ? 
Ann. No, thank you. Sarah. Ax a blessing, father, 
please. 

Redvers. For what we are about to receive 

Curtain, 



ACT II 

Scene : The rear yard of Harter Farm. The house- 
door with deep porch opens on the left of the 
scene, and hesidej it stands a grindstone upon 
which are some tools. At the hack, dividing the 
yard from the moor, falls a \sharp cleft in the hills 
surmounted hy trees. A gully lies beneath. A low, 
broken wall separates the yard from this gully, and 
at one spot, on the right, there is an opening in the 
wall from ivhich steps descend and drop unseen to 
the water below. There are two further exits open- 
ing on the right of the stage, with the wall of a 
barn between them, and an exit on the left below the 
grindstone. There is a litter of straw and red fern 
about the yard, and a good pile of clean fern beside 
the barn. Behind the trees, the undulations of the 
moor roll away to tors on the horizon. There is a 
wooden bench beside ^fhe low wall at the hack, A 
cream pan or two ^stands near the doorway on a 
hoa/rd. The time is evening^ and, during the act 
the light fades gradually from rosy brightness to 
the cool, pearl-grey twilight of June. The murmur 
of an unseen waterfall is heard. 

[Jesse and Anthony Redvers discovered, 
25 



26 THE SECRET WOMAN act ii 

Jesse sits on the bench and looks over the 
wall to the water beneath ; his father 
sharpens a scythe on the grindstone. 

Redvers. I can't understand — I can't understand 
dear mother. She went out last night to see Mrs. 
Ford, and that late she returned that I was in bed and 
asleep afore she came home. But to bed she never 
did come — nor have I seen her to-day, though I rose at 
dawn and hunted high and low. When I was out of 
the way she came back, so Sarah tells me, all weary 
and draggled — as if she'd been pixy-led. 

Jesse. [Looks up at the house.^ She's home now. 

"Redvers. I know it — she's in her chamber and the 
door fast locked against me. Never did the like 
happen afore. 

Jesse. If mother's got anything on her mind, you 
should hear it, I suppose. 

Redvers. Surely — surely. What be I for but to 
take the fret of life ofi' her shoulders ? Though, Lord 
knows, you can't always do it, when a person hides 
her troubles so close. 

Jesse. I should have thought a wife would have 
no troubles away from her husband, nor secrets either. 

Redvers. Nay, nay; we've all got secrets. 'Tis 
part of human nature to harbour 'em. 

Jesse, [Listlessly.'] I can't keep seci^ts — must be 
sharing them. You don't think like mother. 

Redvers. She's a strong thinker, and I'm never too 
comfortable when she gets thinking. [Jesse nods. 



ACT II THE SECRET WOMAN ^7 

[Unter Bloom with milk pails. 

Redvers. a faulty, erring man, am I, Jesse ; but 
I do my poor best for them I care about. But this 
— this antic of locking herself up. She never did 
that afore. 

Bloom. That baggering heron be down on the river 
again. 

Redvees. He's better dead. He eats a lot of trout. 
I'll tell Michael to get his gun. 

[He looks up at the windows and shows un- 
easiness ; hut he whistles from force of 
habit. Then he goes off. 

Bloom [Putting down his cans.] Be there a thunder 
planet in the air ? I'll wager she's heard about the 
master helping Joe "Westaway ? 

Jesse. He hasn't told her yet. 

Bloom. But somebody else have. She was in the 
village last night, with the Fords, and she didn't 
come home till Lord knows when, A helpless pauper 
like Joe be born to make trouble — sure as the sparks 
fly upwards. And goes his way rejoicing and says 
'tis an answer to prayer ! But a cat and a fool 
always fall on their feet. 

Jesse. The prayer to pray is the one you can 
answer yourself. 

Bloom. That's right. Hard work's the only prayer 
as gets answered on Dartymoor. 

Jesse. 'Tis the fools make all the fret and worry, 
Joshua. 



28 THE SECRET WOMAN act ii 

Bloom. You be a fool, too — running after a 
maiden. 

Jesse. How about when you were in love ? 

Bloom. Never — no more than a caterpillar, I 
never cared a cuss for females. Nature tickles us 
humans into breeding afore we've got the sense to 
keep away from it — that's her craft. But she didn't 
get over me. 

Jesse. You was never a hopeful man. 

[Unfer Sarah /rom house. 

Bloom. Never, and never shall be. 

Sarah. Come on Joshua, I'm waiting for that 
milk. 

Bloom. [To Jesse.] But you'll get'your turn — don't 
fear. Us all have the chance to show what we be 
good for once in our lives. 

Jesse. Did you? 

Bloom. Yes, I did. And I was drunk at the time 
and missed it. 

Sarah, You be so impatient, Jesse — impatient 
with humans and impatient with bosses and im- 
patient with the very growing things in the fields. 

Jesse. Patient people always get left behind, 
Sarah — 'tis no virtue. [Exit. 

Sarah. He can say that ! And brought up a 
Christian ! Ban't God in Heaven patient before all 
things. 

Bloom. God A'mighty patient ! I should hope He 
was. 'Tisn't a very strange thing, surely, for the 



ACT II THE SECRET WOMAN 29 

father of a large family to be patient with his own 
cranky childer ? If the Lord can't bear with us, who 
should ? 

Sarah. His ways ban't our ways. 'Twould be 
taking the bread out of parson's mouth if we under- 
stood the Almighty. 

Bloom. And well parson knows it ! Yonder boy is 
after Salome Westaway, and she won't take him. 

[Picking up buckets. 

Sarah. You didn't lift his hopes, I lay ? 
Bloom. No man hears me praise matrimony. I've 
got to thank it for all my troubles. 
Sarah. You ? You're a bachelor. 
Bloom. Born in wedlock. 

[Exit, As he goes off", Ann Bed vers comes out 
of house. She is dressed in black and looks 
haggard and very weary. 

Sarah. Good Lord, missis — what's — ? 

Ann. Tell Michael I'm down, Sarah. 

Sarah. I'll seek him. He's clamouring for vou. 

[Sarah goes off. Ann sits on the bench and 
looks before her^ staring at the picture in 
her thoughts. Michael hurries in. He 
carries a gun and leans it against wall. 

Michael. Mother ! Thank goodness you be down 
house again ! [Kisses her.] Whatever's amiss ? I'm 
terrible troubled for 'e. 



30 THE SECRET WOMAN act ii 

Ann. Scorched up — scorched up, body and soul. 
'Twas like you to fret. Oh, my God ! there bau't 
none to fret no more for me — none but you. 

Michael. Shall I call father? 

Ann. Oh, Michael, Michael, he's nothing to us no 
more. A. traitor, Michael — another woman. 

Michael. Father with another woman ! You're 
dreaming — you're ill ! 

Ann. I saw with these eyes. False — false as the 
jfirst snake — deep as the pit under his eternal laugh- 
ing and gentleness. 

Michael. Be you sure ? Be you sure, mother ? 

Ann. [Very wearily.] I've growed so old to-day — 
'tis so far to look back. And you're my dear son 
still ; and he's your father. 

Michael. If I knowed where he was in me, I'd 
tear him out ! 

Ann. You mind, on the night I came home, that 
you thought I looked troubled ? 

Michael. Aye. 

Ann. 'Twas along of meeting Farmer Fortescue in 
Exeter. Your father wrote that he was going to 
Crediton market. But he never went. Fortescue 
had seen him that very afternoon alone in Halstock 
Woods. 

Michael. What troubled you ? 

Ann. To know he'd spoke false. Still I put it 
away and hoped he'd forgot. But yesterday evening 
I was along with the Fords — and Henry Ford began 
laughing how he'd seen father in Halstock Glen 



ACT II THE SECRET WOMAN 3 1 

by night. But why he couldn't guess. Then I set 
homeward and remembered father was out last night. 
Presently I stopped on the hill and listed to a 
nightjar churn out his queer talk. And then I 
saw Halstock lying dark over the river, and some- 
thing made me slip down to the water and across 
the stepping-stones and climb up the Glen. Some- 
how I knew he was there ; and I laughed to myself 
to think how I'd surprise Anthony if I chanced upon 
him. So I went under a rowan and waited for 
moon-rise. She came up behind the cleave all silver- 
bright, and the darkness was full of light and the 
silence was full of peace. My last peace in this 
world, Michael boy ! But I thought 'twas good to 
be there. I said to myself, "You'd be wiser, Ann 
Redvers, if you comed out like this of a night 
sometimes, after the bustle of day, and let your soul 
take rest at the edge of the dark." Then I felt small 
and mean — to be hid — prying — Ann Redvers prying ! 
My heart rose, and I stood up in the moonlight and 
turned to go away. [Paicse.] But all of a moment, 
afore I could be gone, there fell a noise out of the 
night, A man whistling ' Widecombe Fair.' It 
sounded ugly and broke the fine peace. But I knew 
'twas Anthony and thought no ill. 

Michael. Happy or sad he must be v/histling. 

Ann. I was going straight to him with my tale of 

being puzzled and troubled. And then — and then 

[I^ause.] The man was laden. He carried a bundle 
of fern, and threw it down in a snug place, where the 



32 THE SECRET WOMAN act ii 

yellow broom grew high round about. Its flowers 
were all turned to whiteness by the moonlight. And 
he spread the fern and made a soft couch of it. 
Presently he laughed — he laughed ; and his laughter 
touched something deep down in me. 'Twas the 
laugh that always goes before a drink of cider with 
him, and the Sunday dinner, and such good things. 
And I said, " What feast be coming to Anthony 
E-edvers here ? " And suddenly I guessed. \_She breaks 
oj^ and walks up and down, Michael stares at her 
half in fear.] I came near screaming then — near 
screaming I came. He sat down and still he whistled 
' Widecombe Fair.' And then — far'ofl" — scarce louder 
than a bird, that wakes at night and sings a little 
note — a woman's voice ; and he leapt upon his feet. 
"My li'l nightingale!" he said. Oh God! I'd 
fought so hard to save one spark of hope till then. 
But that killed it. . , . She came — ^just a shadow 
out of the light — and I saw the two of them 
thicken into one, and I heard his kisses on her face. 
But she spoke nought. So they sank into the dark 
and I rushed off, careless of the noise I made. They 
heard nothing. They were glorying and drowning in 
each other. The Trump of God wouldn't have reached 
'em. I wandered till light came. I tramped my feet 
raw. 'Twas a misty morning and the stars were 
smothered afore the dawn. I fell in the river once, 
Michael, and got wetted and bruised and never 
knew it. 

Michael. [Going to her,] Mother, mother ! Yoii 



ACT II THE SECRET WOMAN 33 

shan't sufier this. You shall leave father and come 
away along with me. 

Ann. At first I weren't so very angry. Ban't that 
strange ? 'Tvvas all astonishment. Him — so simple 
and thankful for small mercies where I was concerned ! 
A man I'd chilled and chastened in his flesh. That 
he should look elsewhere ! To think how he frisked 
when I come back, same as a dog that welcomes its 
mistress. 'Tvvas like a window opening into his soul, 
Michael — a window that I didn't know was there. 
And through it I saw him clean emptied of me and 
full of another woman. 

Michael. 'Tis a very wicked, shameful thing for 
certain. 

Ann. Death — death's the least word. The insult 
the dishonour, the sin ! God judge him — God judge 
him for it ! 

Michael. Speak, and I'll take you away this very 
night. 

Ann. Nay, my work's to do. He must hear — he 
must know. 

[Enter Redvers. He exhibits great anxiety. 

Redvers. At last, mother ! For God's sake tell me 
what's gone wrong. I shall go mad at this gait. 

Michael. Mother . . . 

Redvers. [ Impatiently. '\ You be off ; Idon^twant 
you. Get you gone and try and shoot that thieving 
heron down the river. [Michael hesitates.^ Begone, 
I say ! 

c 



S4 THE SECRET WOMAN act ii 

[Michael looks at his mother, takes U2)his gun, 
and then goes out. He indicates acute dis- 
like of his father. 

Kedvers. Curse that boy ! He treats me as if I 
was a bad smell. I'll have a whip-thong about his 
shoulders yet — old as he is. What's amiss, Ann ? 
For God's love get it off your mind. There's all the 
woe of the world in your face. 

Ann. [Standing before him and sjjeaking suddenly 
in a loud voice!] What were you doing in the broom 
patch with a woman last night ? 

[Redvers /a??s bach and gasps. He keeps his 
eyes on her, draios a o'ed handkerchief from 
his j)Ocket aud mops his face. 

An'N. I'd have believed it of any living man before 
you. 

Redvers. [Very sloivly.] Once I thought you was 
bound to find out, and I feared it ; and then time 
passed and I feared no more, and I thought you would 
never find out. And now you have. And so all's up. 
Thank God you can keep cool about it. No wife 
ever forgives that — no woman ever understands. 
What's your will, Anne ? 

[Sits down quietly on form by the wall. 

Ann. Have I been a good partner to you ? 
Redvers. My pride and glory for three and twenty 
years — my first thought and prayer. 



ACT II THE SECRET WOMAN 35 

Ann. Liar ! Cruel liar to talk that trash. False 
while you kissed me — false while you — 

Redvers. [Rising.] No, Ann — never. I call God 
to strike me dead where I stand if I tell anything 
but truth. I've been so true to you as I have been 
to myself. 

Ann. True to yourself ; false to all others belike. 

Redvers. Never. You've had my love and worship 
always. 

Ann. I saw you make her bed. 

Redvers. Is it false to one woman to be fond 
of another? Has no man ever loved two women 
true and tender? 'Tis a thing in their power, I 
tell you — a thing that scores have done. I love you 
with all my heart and soul. I'd die for you, and die 
laughing. Can you call home an impatient word, or 
harsh speech, or unkind deed from me in all your 
life ? I've loved you rising and sleeping — year in, 
year out — and you know it, Ann — you know it in 
your heart. And t'other be a dear thought to me 
also. I wouldn't deny it if I could. I know 'tis death 
to you to hear me say that ; but it shall be said. 

[He sits down again* 

Ann. She's younger than me ? 

Redvers. Leave her out. There's no stain on her. 
The fault be mine — mine through and through. All 
went well enough, because none was hurt by it. But 
now that you be hurt so cruel, 'tis different. You 
won't understand. An angel from heaven wouldn't 
understand. 'Twould take a devil from hell to do 



36 THE SECRET WOMAN act it 

that — according to what you believe. The way of a 
man's body — [Pause. Eedvees rises, and beats his 
breast.] This here dust be nought — 'twill go down to 
the pit ere long, and be forgot. But, afore God, my 
conscience is clear of evil. 

Ann. Conscience ! To come to me from cuddling 
her! 

Redvers. Try and grasp hold of my meaning afore 
tis too late, Ann. I'm built so. My flesh and blood's 
a bit too much for you and always was. And a bit 
too much for me sometimes. Try and understand 
that a man like me be turned on a different lathe 
from a woman like you. He's hungrier — thirstier — 
beastlier — yet I won't grant that neither, for I've 
never been that, [She looks at him with passionate 
dislike, moves from him and goes down by the grind- 
stone.] Well, life's done. I won't ax you to be generous 
— that would be mean ; and yet, if I don't ax it, you'll 
think that I don't want you to be. But if it had 
happened t'other way round 

Ann. [Turns in wrath. She has taken a heavy knife 
off the grindstone lohere it lies with others.] You dare ! 
To think that — to harbour such a thought in your 
filthy mind against me ! 

Redvers. No, no, no ! I thought no such thing. 
There's no common clay at all in you Who should 
know that like I know it ? 

Ann. [Dropping the knife.] If I'd been a bad 
wife 

Redvers. The best ever a man had. I've blown 



ACT II THE SECRET WOMAN 37 

a trumpet about my luck ever since we wedded ! 
'Twas only the fret and trouble, and the children, and 
trifles like that ever came between us. But I was a 
weak fool to let such things hurt. 

Ann. Ann Red vers to marry a weak fool ! What 
was it to find that out ? [Staring at him.] But I loved 
you. I was true as steel and I hid my feelings deep. 
You'd never have known them to your dying hour — 
but for this. 

Redveks. [Strokes his heard and gives a little laugh.] 
Did you think I didn't know ? Nay, nay — 'twasn't 
hid from me, Ann. I knew what you thought of me 
well enough. Your eyes told me. Often — often I've 
seen you despise me with 'em. . . . And now the 
past be past and done. I'm sorry — bitterly sorry 
about it — so all's said. 

Ann. Why for are you sorry — you that pretend 
you did no sin ? 

Redvers. Sorry 'tis found out. That's all. It 
went very well and offered a little joy for two harmless 
people. 

Ann. Harmless ! You've killed your soul — that's 
what you've done — and her's — and her's ! Who 
have shared this masterpiece of wickedness with you ? 

Redvers. Thank God you don't know — ^and please 
God you never shall. That's so much to the good 
anyway. 

[He sits doivn again. Re reveals great grie/ 
^tpon his countenance. He leans forward 
and puts his hands between his knees. 



38 THE SECRET WOMAN act it 

Ann. After two and twenty years. . . . 

[Her face indicates that she is thinking of old 

times. Emotions cross it. Grief fades to 

indifference^ v^hich anger hanishes, He^' 

expression groves inert, and then qidckens 

into a momentary happiness. Looking 

into the hygone years, she smiles. For a 

moment she forgets. Then her face grows 

tender and yearning. He sees nothing ; 

his eyes are on the ground. He ivhistles a 

feio notes, then is silent. He turns to the 

wall pi^esently and buries his face upon his 

arm. She takes a step or tivo toicards 

him, then hesitates. She loeeps and puts 

her hands over her face and goes into the 

house. 

Redvers. [Ignorant that she has gone.] Don't tell 

the boys just yet, Ann. I'll do any mortal thing in 

reason. A hugeous upheaval. You say 'tis death — 

'tis worse than death. Death makes an end. But 

this [Turns round and finds that his wife has 

gone. The sunset fires have faded and the light is 
dying. He walks to the door ; then stands still. He 
picks up the knife that Anne dropped and puts it hack 
on the grindstone. Then he goes to look over the broken 
wall at rear of yard. He stands where if is loivest and 
sets one foot upon it. He thrusts his hands into his 
breeches pockets. There is heard the sound of the 
waterfall.'] Poor Ann — poor Salome ! [He whistles 
mechanically. His face is unutterably mournful. He 



ACT Ti THE SECRET WOMAN 39 

loohs down into the gully and then up at the hills. For a 
few moments he ceases to ivhistle.] If I could bear it all, 
[He takes a step or two and then returns to 
the wall and the former position. Now 
he whistles ' Widecomhe Fair ' slowly. 
Enter Ann Redvers from the door behind 
him. She weeps no more. Her face is 
bright with the spirit of forgiveness. 

Ann. Husband — I be going to pardon 

[She breaks of and listens to the tune that he 
is luhistling. It silences her and instantly 
changes her mood, Ann's expression alters 
into one of fury. She glares at Kedvers, 
and loses her self-control. She flies at him, 
and striJces him ivith both hands together at 
the back of his neck. Michael and Jesse 
appear down left, Michael carries his 
gun. 
Ann. [Screaming.] Lewd, pitiless wretch ! 
Redvers. [Putting up both hands.] Ann ! 

[He to2)ples forward and disappears. There is 
a momeiifs silence, then his body is heard 
to strike the rocks beneath. 
Jesse. You've killed him mother ! 

[He hurries across to the steps in the wall and 
descends them. 
Michael. [Dropping his gun and hastening to Ann. 
Oh mother, you've done for him ! 
Ann. Help Jesse — quick — quick ! 
Michael. I'll stick up for you for ever. 



4-0 THE SECRET WOMAN act ii 

Anx. Go! 

[Michael descends the steps after Jesse. 
Jesse. [Below.] I do think he lives. 
Ann. Please God — Please God ! [She goes to the top 
of the steps.] Gently. Hold up his head, Jesse ! 

[She descends a feiv steps to help them. Jesse 
and Michael carr'y up their father. 
Jesse. Lie him down here — heap the fern for his 
head. 

[They lower him gently on fern that litters the 
yard, near the wall of the ham. 
Ann. Fetch the brandy, Michael. 

[Ann Kedvers kneels beside him and opens his 
collar and shirt. While she is thus engaged, 
Jesse starts running aci'oss to right exit. 
Michael, who is now near door into house, 
leap)s to his gun and picks it up. 
Michael. Stop ! Come you back Jesse Redvers, or, 
by Christ, I'll shoot you ! 

Jesse. [Turns and loalhs hack. Both young men 
are tremhling with rage.] Shoot then — shoot me in 
the back — like she killed my father. I was going 
for doctor. But shoot, and be a murderer too. I 
don't want to live if he's gone. 

[Re goes off. Ann paT/s no heed to either oj 
them. She knows noio that her husband 
is dead. 
Michael. [Calls off to Jesse.] Bring back any 
other but doctor, and I'll swing for you ! 

[Drojjs gun and turns to his mother. Ann 



ACT II THE SECRET WOMAN 41 

places the head of Anthony E/EDVErs 
hack gently and buttons up his shirt. She 
tahes the red handkerchief from his pocket 
and wipes his face. Then she rises and 
moves away, hut does not lift her eyes from 
him. 

Ann. He's dead. 

Michael. 'Twas justice — and God knows it — and 
them that wouldn't understand never shall know it. 
[She still gazes at Redvers. Michael creeps 
up to her and holds her hand. There 
remains the murmur of the waterfall. 

Curtain. 



ACT III 

Scene : The Parlour, Watchett Hill Farm. A poor 
room with a blurred looking-glass over the 
chimney-piece, and wedding and funeral cards 
stuck down the sides of it. The gilded frame is 
tao'nished in many places^ A sicite of faded and 
withered green rep occupies the room, and some of 
the chairs, with broken legs, stand propped against 
the wall. The table car^'ies a vase of dried grass, a 
family Bible, a worsted mat or two and a few books. 
There is also a small, light table, withledgers and pen 
and ink upon it. Oleographs, hung very high, and 
mostly crooked, occupy the walls. The lace window- 
curtains are torn. The blind is white and ragged. 
Under the window stands the couch of the suite. 
The carpet is very threadbare, and, there are stains 
of past leaks on the faded, outer wall of the room. 
Fir-cones are piled to fill the empty fireplace^ A 
few withered pbotographs in frames stand upon 
the chimney-piece, and, before the hearth, lies a 
mat, made of the skins of sheep-dogs. There is a 
harmonium in one corner of the room. Doors to 
the right and the left. 

[Barbara and Salome discovered. They are 
43 



44 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

moving the things off the table and piling them on the 
Hoor. They also thrust hack the arm-chairs and clear 
the room as much as may be. Barbara is unchanged. 
Salome is paler, thinner and perceptibly older. 
She speaks more sloiuly and with a heavy indiffer- 
ence. The lustre of happiness has departed from her. 
Both women are clad in print dresses, wear aprons, 
and have their sleeves turned over their elhoios. 
Salome. When do they come to sell us up ? 
Barbara. Half past four o'clock 'tis to be. I 
doubt there's room for 'em all in here. 

Salome. I can't see us away from Watch ett Hill, 
Barbara. 

Barbara. Can't you ? You soon will — unless — [She 
is at the mantelpiece putting something upon it from 
the table. A card in the looking-glass falls and attracts 
her attention.] My ! Strange 'twas that one ! Poor 
Anthony Red vers — his funeral card. It must be a 
year as near as can be. 

Salome. 'Tis a year to-day. 

Barbara. Little that dead man thought his money 
would only put off the trouble for a twelvemonth. 
[Putting back card.] Poor Anthony — he done his 
best. He gave us a year more. But now 'tis the 
hoss doctor, and devil take the hindmost. 

Salome. Arscott was patient enough with all his 
faults. 

Barbara. So's a lot of other things. For why ? They 
can afford to be. Well might the man bide patient. 
His patience be growing gold for him — same as the 



ACT III THE SECRET WOMAN 45 

patience of the earth grows corn. But I don't quarrel 
with Billy and never have. 

Salome. [Listlessly,] I suppose it will be a cottage 
for father, and us in service ? 

Barbara, Ko, it won't. I ain't going to leave 
father — not for service anyway. Something have 
got to be managed. Since we can't do it single, we 
must see if we can do it double. 

Salome. What d'you mean ? 

Barbara. I mean marriage. 

Salome. Takes two for that. 

Barbara. Well, and the man's waiting in your 
case. Jessie Redvers be wearing his heart out for 'e. 

Salome. ' Husband ' ! A queer word. 

Barbara. [Grows very self- conscious and looks 
cautiously round her,] Not half so queer as the thing 
by all accounts. But I've got my ideas. I don't 
preach to you what I'm afraid to practise. I mean 
Billy Arscott. 'Tis now or never. 

Salome. You shan't do it! You shan't do it, 
Barbara. A market bargain ! Never would father 
have a moment's peace. 

Barbara. Oh yes, he would ! There'd be peace, and 
plenty too. The man would straighten us out in no 
time. Safe as a rock for a husband. 

Salome. And as hard. 

Barbara. But I ain't the fine thing I was ten years 
ago, and nobody knows that better than I do. I feel 
very friendly to him, however, though 'tis bitter likely 
he's got no more use for me. Don't whisper it to father 



46 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

[Enter Joseph Westaway and Joshua Bloom. 

West. Eight or ten of 'em be coming. Toby 
Hannaf ord and a good few others. And Billy Arscott 
will drop in an hour earlier. \_IIe looks at his watch.] 
He's going through the books once more, with Barbara, 
so as to save time at the meeting. 

Bloom. Sharpening his claws — the wretch ! 

Barbara. [To Bloom.] Why do you poke in ? We 
don't owe you nothing anyway, Joshua Bloom. 

West, Joshua's an inquiring sort of man and 
wants to add to his knowledge. He's never seen a 
meeting of creditors afore and may never get the 
chance again, so I've let him come. 

Bloom. I be here in a most neighbourly spirit, miss, 
and got a whole holiday for it and all ! I can't do 
nought; but I can shed the light of my countenance. 

Barbara. If that would fright 'em away, I'd say 
nothing. 

West. 'Tis a trying thing for a man in my position 
to be pressed for cash. You'd never guess it. Bloom, 
but I've signed a cheque for forty-nine pounds, 
eighteen shillings in my time ! Yes — and made no 
stir about it. But bankrupt's not the word. .T!^o 
man can be made a bankrupt with my faith in God, 
and my knowledge of sheep, and two such good 
daughters as these here women. 

Bloom. And when all's said, us shall soon all be in 
our graves and at peace. 

West, True again ! This life's no more than the 
sour rind to a sweet nut, Joshua. Not so sour, 



ACT III THE SECRET WOMAN 47 

neither. Your poor master, Anthony Redvers, 
knowed that well enough. If he'd been spared 

Bloom. 'Tis this day year he dropped. The missis 
and Michael have took the wreath to the grave and 
Mister Jesse's going to call here come presently. The 
wreath be a terrible brave trophy — so bright as the 
sun and all in a glass case. 'Twill make his mound 
the pride o' the churchyard. 

Barbara. 'Tis a black day for her. 

Bloom. Black for all of us. But life's three parts 
black days, and the rest be grey. And no doubt you 
feel terrible down-daunted with this rally of creditors 
hanging over you. 

West. 'Tis but a small thing against that widow's 
grief. 

Bloom. The dead be out of it. The grave be a very 
cheerful state in my judgment — but for the getting 
there. I can see Redvers now — lying on the fern in 
the yard — for all the world as if he slept. And then 
come the inquest, and blame thrown on that dangerous 
place in the wall, and the sympathy with the widow 
and her sons. 

West. Well might the folk be sorry. 

Barbara. Nothing but good could any say of that 
man and none will ever forget his funeral. The most 
unexpected folk cried like childer. 

West. 'Twas a thing to remember without a doubt. 
Gome, Joshua Bloom. I must be going to the village ; 
but you'll be back in lots 'o time for the fun. Us'U 
look at my grass on the way. 'Tis a wonderful crop. 



48 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

Bloom. Grass be nothiDg without beasts to eat it. 
West. A very true saying. Beasts and grass be 
the halves of a flail — one nought without t'other. 
But land's the solemn thought — the land under a 
man's feet. 

Bloom. And never more solemn than when you be 
going to lose it, flock-master. 

[ExevMt Westaway and Bloom. Westaway 
looks in at door again immediately/. 
West. Here's Jesse Redvers come. [Exit. 

Barbara. We don't want him yet. 
Salome. His mother kissed me last time I fell in 
with her. [Goes to door. 

Barbara. [Busy at left oj 9*oc»m.] Who'd have 
thought the likes of her would miss a man so much ? 
Salome. She loved him. Love takes many patterns. 
[Salome opens the door for Jesse. 
Barbara. I wish I knowed what pattern Billy 
Arscott's be like to take. 

[Jesse enters. He is clad in loork-a-day clothes 
ivith a black band on his arm. He wears his 
father's big silver watch-chain, 
Barbara. You be a lot too soon, Jesse. 
Jesse. I can't keep away to-day. You know that. 
[Salome and Jesse stand at the doorway. 
Barbara pays no heed to tJiem. 
Salome. Bloom says the new wreath be a flne sight. 
Jesse. There's fairer things on his grave already. 
A great bunch of white windflowers lies there. 
Others loved him beside us. 



ACT Til THE SECRET WOMAN 49 

Salome, Flowers be all you can give the dead. 

Jesse. 'Tis strange to see the grass so green. It 
seems only yesterday his pit was dug for him, 

Salome. But the sorrow's old — like thicky band I 
stiched upon your sleeve. 

Jesse. Nay — that's worn rusty. The torture of my 
memory is fresh enough. [Barbara goes to the window.] 
They talk of hell, hell's here on earth or nowhere. 

[Arscott passes window. 

Salome. Aye ; 'tis the living get hell, not the dead. 

Barbara. Here he is ! [Arscott raps at the door. 
Barbara takes off her apron and turns down her sleeves.] 
Here's Billy Arscott. 

[She opens the door and lets in William 
Arscott. 

Jesse. With a flower in his buttonhole, as though 
'twas a revel ! 

Arscott. If I'm in the way, say so ; but half after 
three was my hour. [To Jesse.] You and me must 
knock our heads together for these maidens when the 
meeting is over. Have 'e got the books, Barbara ? 
There's a dozen men and women coming, and they'll 
all be so punctual as winter. 

Salome. You don't want me ? 

BarbarAo [JVervously,] I may do. You bide in the 
kitchen, please, Salome ; and Jesse can go about his 
business and come back later. 

Jesse, [lb Arscott.] 'Tis understand we meet after. 

[Exit Jesse. Salome casts a searching look at 

BAJtBARA, and then at Arscott. She goes off. 

D 



50 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

Barbara, [Fetching hooks from table.] At Quarter 
Day Watchett Hill's yours, "William — to the last 
daisy in the meadow — and we must go forth — father 
and sister and me. 

Arscott. [Sitting doion at the fable and taking out 
his spectacle case.] Naked we come into the world and 
naked we leave it. Nobody's more sorry for Joe 
than I am. 

Barbara. [Putting the books in front of him.] 'Tis 
the land he loves so dear. I do pray just the leastest 
scrap o' land can be spared for him. Surely a man 
that's owned five and twenty acres — you wouldn't put 
him in a house in a row, with nought but a back fence 
and a back garden and a rope to dry the washing on ? 

Arscott. I want to keep him ^out of the house 
that's got a hundred windows and no garden at all — 
the Union Workhouse. 

Barbara. He's helped to save many another from it. 

Arscott. Why, my dear woman, you wasn't used 
to pipe that silly stuff! Have time broke your 
pluck ? 

Barbara. We can't all wear like William Arscott. 
The years pass you by and never leave a mark. 

[Goes to glass and smooths her hair. 

Arscott. That's true. I don't feel my age. 

Barbara. And don't look it. 

[She gets some account hooks from the side table 
and brings pen and ink. He sits by the 
big table and puts on his spectacles. 

Arscott. And my hair's so thick as thatch yet ; and 



ACT m THE SECRET WOMAN 51 

when I was at the tooth-drawer's to Okehampton, the 
man said as he'd never seen a better lot of grinders. 
Barbara. All very good signs. 
Arscott. There's a sight more sap in me than any- 
body guesses, Barbara. 

Barbara. A good husband flung away in my 
opinion. 

Arscott. And who flung him away ? 
Barbara. I'm speaking about you — not me. 

[Arscott rises and goes to the window, 

Barbara stands hy the fireplace^ then 

she kneels, picks up a fallen fir-cone and 

upsets others. She is nervous. 

Barbara. You ain't against marriage as a general 

thing, however ? 

Arscott. Good lord, no ! The world must go on. 
Didn't I ax you to marry me ? 

[They go hack to the hooks. 
Barbara. [Sitting down.] We — we all make mis- 
takes. 

[Shows dee}) anxiety to see hoio he will take 
this admission. 
Arscott. [Misundey^standing.] Well, well — but 
some might think 'twas you that did — ^not me. 

Barbara. [Setting her teeth, frowning and then 
speaking.] I might think so myself. 

[A long silence. He turns away from the hooks. 
Then he stands up and looks at her. She 
turns and sits at the table with her hack 
to him. He regards her very closely and 



52 THE SECRET WOMAN act iii 

she is conscious of it and begins to suffer. 
She 2)uts her hands up to her neck. 

Barbara. Speak for God's sake ! Don't creep 
about like that behind me. I can eel your eyes in 
my back. 

Arscott, [Putting his sjicctacles into their case and 
then into his pocket.^ Take a easy chair and keep cool. 
"lis for me to grow warm — not you. Do 'e see all 
that hangs to this ? 

\^He draivs out an [easy chair. She does not 
move, so he sits in the easy chair himself, 
crosses his legs, picks his teeth and smiles. 

Arscott, Ban't leap year neither, Barbara ! 

[Laitghs. 

Barbara. I've said it — though it cost more than 
any male could ever know, or dream. I've said it, 
and I mean it. 

Aescott. You're sorry for that ' no ' ten year 
agone ? [Barbara nods her head.] Well, well ! What 
a day may bring forth ! and me just beginning to 
think serious of Widow Powesland — at the ' Red 
Lion,' over to Tavistock ! 

Barbara. I didn't know that, William. 

Arscott. Of course you didn't — more do she. 

Barbara. We'd better do the books. 

Arscott. Plenty o' time. 'Tis a very startling 
thing for a woman to propose marriage to a man. It 
don't often happen and I'm a bit flustered accordingly. 
'Tis a great compliment — if you be thinking of me and 
not your father. 



ACT III THE SECRET WOMAN 53 

Barbara. You've a right to put it so, and I knew 
you would. Of course it ain't poetry, like it was ten 
years ago. 

Arscott. Don't say that neither. I'm sure 'tis 
very poetical for a woman to pop the question. 

Barbara. I've long larned to make sixpence do the 
work of a shilling, William, if that's anything. 

Arscott. The craft of you women ! ' Anything ' ? 
Dammy ! It's everything ! How many females 
know the power in a penny ? But there's fors and 
againsts. A man mustn't forget his duty to himself. 

Barbara. You're not likely to do that. 

Arscott. Ten years is ten years ; and ten years hits 
a woman harder than a man. You mustn't expect 
them tearing fine speeches of ten years ago, 
Barbara. 

Barbara. No— I don't. The gilt's oflf the ginger- 
bread — I know that. I shan't think the worse of you 
if you feel the hour be gone past. 

[Arscott gets up and savMters about the room. 

Arscott. As a rule, your ugly, time-stained people 
are wiser than the handsome ones. Cast your eyes 
over me ; I've got ten wrinkles to your father's one. 
And as for you— a woman's face and figure be delicate 
subjects ; but truth is truth, and this is the time for 
it, and the truth is that you — [^Shakes his head.] 
Thinner round the bosom, to be plain, and paler in the 
cheek, and not quite the old crown of honey-coloured 
hair that I used to doat on. 

Barbara. [Shivers and lifts her hands to her breast 



54 THE SECRET WOMAN act iii 

as though to hide it.] I've been hungry more than once 
since then. 

Arscott. And so have I — for you, Barbara ! Thin 
— yes, but you're worth your corn to any man. Tough 
and not frightened of work, and good-looking and 
good-tempered, and better'n a barrel-load of young, 
giglet girls, that don't know they're born. [I^xtends 
his arms as if he ivanted her to come into them.] So, 
cut it short, and come — I'll take you — and proud to ! 

Barbara. [Bows her head.] You know how we 
are placed, William. Father's got none to trust to 

but 

Arscott. Be loverly ! Be loverly ! Don't drag him 
in. 

Barbara. I wouldn't mix business with pleasure, 
"William — don't think that. 

Arscott. More wouldn't I. And 'tis a real, proper 
pleasure, all of a sudden, like this, to think of 
marrying you. 

Barbara. [Hum'bly^^ Thank you kindly, William. 

Arscott. I'm hard, but I'm sporting. I'll do my 
part, and do it well. But don't rub in your father 
just now. Give me a kis?, Barbara ! Be blessed if 
there isn't a bit of poetry to it — even after all these 
years ! 

Barbara. I know you're sporting. 

[Lets him. kiss her. 

Arscott. Mind and keep dumb for a bit. Let the 
chaps all come with their long faces and I'll burst it 
among 'em presently. Think of Toby Hannaford's 



ACT III THE SECRET WOMAN 55 

mug ! And your father's ! So good as a circus I 
promise you, 

Barbara. Oh, William, be a real lover and grant 
one favour — only one. I'll never ask another. 

Arscott. Ha — ha — you're begging early ! Come 
here — let me stroke your fine arms. Sit on my lap — 
just half a second ! Why not ? A bowerly maiden 
you be — and — and [Takes her in his arms, 

Barbara. Swear to God, you'll never tell no living 
creature 'twas I that axed you. 

Arscott. Ashamed of your forward ways a'ready ! 
No, be sure I won't squeak about that. They'll 
all say I'm a scoundrel and drove a sinful hard 
bargain — but let *em ! I don't care — so long as I've 
got you. 

Barbara. [Very go'atefuUy.] Thank you, William 

[Leaves him and prepares to go] And, William 

[Returns impulsively, kisses him warmly, and 
hurries ojj, 

Arscott. [Liching his lips.] If I'd only guessed, I'd 
have made old Joe gallop before this ! 

[Enter Joseph Westaway. He carries a 
black bottle and a parcel in a paper bag. 

Arscott. You're a lucky old fool, flock-master — and 
don't deserve a pennyworth of it ! What have you 
got in thicky bottle — poison ? 

West. I've bought a cake and wine, William. 
Cake and wine for the creditors. 

[Takes a big cake out of bag, Enter Barbara. 



56 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

Arscott. You be dying game, my old bird ! 

Barbara. God's goodness, father ! This ban*t a 
party. 

West. It is and it ain't. Where the males assemble 
together, save in church or at hounds, there's 
got to be eating and drinking. For a wed- 
ding or a funeral, solids ; for a christening or a 
meeting of creditors, just a drop of sherry wine and 
a nibble of plum cake — to make the people patient. 
So get a corkscrew and some glasses and no more 
about it. 

Arscott. You do what you're told, Barbara, and 
be sharp. 

[IJxit Barbara. Men^s voices heard off and 
men pass the window. 

West. Here they come. 

Arscott. Two and two and all in black — ^like carrion 
crows to a dead oss ! 

[Enter Bloom. 

Bloom. The creditors be on 'e, Joe ! A proper 
rally of 'em ! 

\Enter Salome, who wears a sun bonnet^ 
followed hy Barbara. The latter carries 
glasses and a corkscreio on a tray. West- 
AWAY puts corkscreio into bottle. 
Arscott. Why be you like that cork, Joe '^ 

[Enter Jesse Redvers, Toby Hannaford, I^ed 
Pearn and others, including two elderly 
women 



ACT iTi THE SECRET WOMAN 57 

Hannaford. We be come, neighbour — and cruel 
sorry to come. 

Pearn. I wish there was any way out, Joe ; but 
the age of miracles be gone, I'm fearing. 

West. Don't you say that, Ned. The Almighty's 
all powerful still. He could get me out of this 
fix with a turn of His Holy Wrist if He willed 
it so. [Enter two more men.] Come in — come in 
You're all welcome. 

Arscott. This ain't fair to the drawing-room 
carpet. Let's go in the yard ! Fetch along the 
books, Barbara, and lend me a hand. 

West. A good thought. Hand the chairs out of 
the window, Salome ; there's some in the kitchen too. 
But you folk must have a wet afore we begin. 

Hannaford. Nay, nay — we ban't here to drink 
wine. 

Bloom. To suck blood more like — eh Toby ? 

Arscott. Come you all into the yard and hear the 
figures first ; and then I'll ax you to list to me. 

[Exeunt Arscott, Hannaford, Pearn and 
others. Bloom helps Barbara to hand 
some chairs through the window. Jesse 
and Salome go off. 

Bloom. 'Tis for all the world as if the brokers were 
in a'ready ! 

West. [To Arscott outside the window.] Put 
'em on the lew side o' the big linhey, William. Lend 
a hand with the table, Barbara. 



58 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

[Barbara and Westaway go out carrying the 
small table between them. 

Bloom. No doubt this will come after. [Smells 
the bottle^ Pretty drinking by the smell of it. 

[Enter Jesse and Salome. He carries two 
kitchen chairs and she candies one. Bloom 
and another take Jesse's two chairs and 
go out with the remaining men, Jesse 
hands Salome's chair through the window. 

Jesse. You don't mean to be there ? 

Salome. Why should I watch 'em fight for our 
bones ? 

Jesse. Arscott don't want me yet. My mother's 
wishful to help — if she can — and 

Salome. [Flings her sunbonnet on to the sofa.] She's 
done enough already. 

Jesse. She only kept my father's promise. 

Salome. I warrant she's down-daunted to-day. 

Jesse. Her sorrow has opened my eyes to the 
sorrow of all the world. And to yours — yours too 
Salome. 

Salome. [Starting slightly.] What do you mean ? 

Jesse. You hide yourself from everybody but me ; 
but love makes me see the truth of you, 

Salome. Love's blind. 

Jesse. You're sad and sorry and the world bears 
hard on you. You. feel the grief of it — same as I do. 

Salom-e. Yes, but I'd shame to share my griefs. 

[She sits on table near him. 



ACT III THE SECRET WOMAN 59 

Jesse. My heart's always crying to share. A 
shared grief's the lighter, Salome. 

Salome. Then you'd share for selfishness. 

Jesse. [Starts.] What a thought'! 

Salome. Work, I tell you. Work your fingers to 
the bone. Work till your flesh aches and makes you 
forget your aching heart. Copy your mother. Grief 
have made her sweet, like the frost ripes the sloe. 
That kindly she's grown with young and old — as 
gentle as she used to be stern. She kissed me when 
last I saw her. 

Jesse. She's very fond of you. 

Salome, If you could look in my heart, young 
Jesse, you'd find that I know more of her loss than 
any other creature. 

Jesse. [Re nods.] I've heard you say truer things 
about my father than anybody. If I was more like 
him, perhaps then ? 

Salome. [Shakes her head.] You and me be the sort 
to die together — not live together. I've loved and 
I've lost. [Half to herself.] He called himself my red 
fox ; but he wasn't a red man really. 

Jesse. [Astonished.] What are you saying? 
Salome. He's gone — like last year's sunshine. 
Jesse. I never heard you name a sweetheart, 
Salome. 

Salome. You make folk blab things — like you do 
yourself. Why should I tell you ? Water to his wine 
you are — tears to his laughter ; but I love you, too, 
you poor, sad Jesse. You be fit company for mourners. 



60 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

Jesse. My heart's very full to-day — full and empty 
both. [Pause.] Father thought the world of you. His 
eye would light when your name was named. 

Salome. [She looks at him icatchfully and shows no 
emotion.] You ought to be with your mother — not 
with me. 

Jesse. Michael is with her. 

Salome. A tower of strength that man. 

Jesse. But he's no more use to my sad mother 
than I am. 

Salome. He believes like she does. 

Jesse. If I could show her truth ! I've fought to 
do it, Salome — for her peace. From many books 
and much thinking I've got to doubt ; and from 
seeing the ache of the world ; and from watching the 
good and patient go down to dust and sorrow. To 
reach her heart with the truth ! I've often thought 
she might take it from you. 

Salome. No angel from heaven would shake her 
trust in God. 

Jesse. But a woman from earth might shake her 
trust in hell. I've talked till I'm weary, but 'tis all 
vain. 

Salome. What have you told her ? 

Jesse. That 'tisn't conscience but remorse that's 
eating her alive. Remorse — a hateful, foul poison 
that kills life and hope. If she could but take up 
her life for the sake of the living — instead of 
hungering to die for the sake of the dead. She makes 
the wages of sin life, not death. 



ACT III THE SECRET WOMAN 61 

Salome. Sin? 

Jesse. 'Tis her word, not mine. Sin's only a 
parson's scarecrow to fright us human children. You 
can be guilty and sinless, Salome. And sinless she 
is. " We are free, we are free agents," she says — 
like a bell tolling ; but 'tis tolling a lie. There's no 
free will — none. D'you understand that ? 

Salome. Then this God, they tell about, hasn't the 
right to judge any man ? 

Jesse. There 'tis ! Make her see that — make her 
feel that ! No free will, no judgment. [Loud laugh- 
ter outside.^ Mother says her immortal soul is lost. I 
say, granted she's got a soul, it isn't lost. 

Salome. Every man's free to go uphill or down — 
to eat or starve. 

Jesse, Not one ! And if no choice — then no sin 

Salome. You poor word-spinner ! 

Jesse, Suppose you'd done a thing in the past, 
Salome, and couldn't be sure whether 'twas good or 
evil? 

Salome. \Weary of the theme,'] Your heart tells you 
if 'tis evil or not. 

Jesse. But they lie and say the heart of man is des- 
perately wicked, so we daren't listen to our hearts. 
'Tis conscience we heed : the things our mothers 
taught us. The Ten Commandments — why the rocks 
they were writ on are more a part of God's word than 
them ! I've thought 'em to nothing — every one of 
'em. 

Salome. You'll think yourself into a madhouse some 



62 THE SECRET WOMAN act hi 

day. You can leave God out ; bufe you can't leave 
man out. You can't get away from justice. Stealing 
means prison, and murder means hanging. 

Jesse. [^Deeply interested.'] But it wasn't murder — 
that's what I've fought to show her ever since my 
father died. She struck him in a moment of wrath. 

\Pause. 

Salome, Struck him — she — ^she ? 

Jesse. Salome ! 

[Looks at her and puts his hand to his forehead, 

Salome. 'Twasn't accident ? 

Jesse. I forgot — my heart was bursting with it to- 
day. 

Salome. She struck him ? 

Jesse. Like the flash of the lightning. He fell and 
the rocks in the river-bed killed him. 

[Salome succumbs and sits down abruptly on 
the sofa behind her. She stares at Jesse. 
Shouts of laughter rise without, Arscott's 
voice heard. Salome recovers self-control 
and assumes a tense^ loatchful manner ^ like 
a hunting cat, 

Salome. Ann Redvers. There's only one thing 
that woman would have done — murder for. 

Jesse. Not murder — not murder. Never say it or 
think it. There was a wretch got hold of him — some 

nameless harlot. And mother found out — and 

Salome put her face down against the hack of the sofa 
and hides her eyes with her hands.] She'll be thank- 



ACT III THE SECRET WOMAN 63 

ful to God you know. She'll say 'twas her God made 
it slip out and loosed my tongue. She's always on 
her knees praying to be punished. When it happened, 
we made her promise not to give herself up — Michael 
swore he'd kill himself if she did. But now — 
you, Salome. It must come to good. It must, 
Salome [Salome stares fixedly ^ hut does not dis- 
play her emotion.'] Speak to me. 

Salome. I'm looking at Ann Redvers. 

Jesse. By his grave now. The unhappiest woman 
in the world. Think what 'twould be to comfort that 
broken heart. 

Salome. Comfort ! 

[Bloom comes in. 

Bloom. You be wanted, Mister Jesse. There's 
signs and wonders happening in the land, I warn 'e ! 
Laugh ! Why, the folk have shook Dartymoor ! 

[Uxif Bloom. 
Jesse. If anything was ever sacred, 'tis what you've 
heard this day, Salome. 

[He looks back to see her still staring, hut self- 
controlled. Then he follows Bloom. 
Salome. Anthony ' 

[She sinks into a posture oj griej. Anon she 
steadies herself and reflects. Presently she 
indicates anger and a desire to he moving. 
She leaps up and looks ahout her. Then 
she puts on her sunhonnet. Without, there 
are laughter and voices, that grow louder 
as men and women pass the tvindow. 



64 THE SECRET WOMAN act iti 

Salome is jast about to go to the door hut 
she sees that the people are there. She 
hastens off as the other door opens. There 
enter William Arscott, Joseph West- 
AWAY, Jesse Eedvers, and Barbara with 
the other women. Toby Haxnaford, Ned 
Pearn, Bloom, and the rest follow, or re- 
main at the ivindow looking in. 
West. What did I tell my unbelieving girls? 
That an old man's faith can move mountains still ! 
[Pours out the wine and puts a glass into the 
hands outstretched towards him, 
Barbara. Sally must know ! 

[Runs across and exit, 
Barbara [Off.] Salome! 
Hannaford. Good luck and long live to 'em ! 
The other Men and Women. Good luck! Long 
life! 



Curtain. 



ACT IV 

Scene : Harter kitchen as before, A year has passed 
and there are certain inevitable alterations in the 
arrangement of the furniture and minor details of 
the room. Different hams and herbs suspend from 
the ceiling. The grocer's almanac has disappeared, 
and there are no plants in the recesses of the win- 
dows, A shawl hangs over the back of the settle 
by the fireplaces The time is nights Dark blinds 
are drawn. A candle burns on the mantelpiece, 
and a tall paraffin lamp with a white glass shade 
stands upon the table. Under the lamp is the 
work-box of Ann EedverSj open, with a litter of 
lohite work about it, 

[Ann Redvers discovered, loith Sarah Tapp, 
Nathaniel Tapp, and Michael. Ann is 
icorking ; Sarah knits beside the fire, and 
Nathaniel is near her. Michael smokes, 
sitting near his mother, 

Tapf, No, ma'am, you don't judge the evil-doer so 
stern as you did use to do. But the times call for it. 

65 B 



66 THE SECRET WOMAN act iv 

There's a lot of wickedness about, and 'tis no good 
looking t'other way. 

Ann. Let each begin at home, Nathaniel. 

Tapp. So I say, and so I do. 'Tis a very good 
thing to sweep the Gospel broom round the dark 
corners of the heart. 

Sarah. There be many that shake at the thought 
of not having a spring cleaning ; yet they never 
think about a soul cleaning from one year's end to 
another. [Bises and gathers her knitting. 

Michael. You ought to join the Methodies, 
Sarah. 

Sarah. I call a spade a spade, and a sinner a 
sinner. 

Ann. We must do good for evil, Sarah — and think 
good for evil. 

Sarah. I never could do good for evil myself, and 
I won't pretend it. 

Tapp. More don't the Law of the land. Justice 
for evil be the Law. 

Michael, What is j ustice ? 

Tapp. 'Tis the best that man can do. Mercy be 
better left to God. 

Ann. Maybe His mercy is the highest justice, 

Michael. There ; you're answered, Nat. God's all 
love, or else He's nought. 

Tapp, That ain't my idea, Mister Michael, nor yet 
Jehovah's — not if I know him. 

Sarah. [Lights candle at little table beside the 
' Grandfather ' clock. To Tapp.] Come, master, tis 



ACT IV THE SECRET WOMAN 67 

bedtime for you and me. Good-night, missis ; good- 
night, MichaeL 

Michael. Good-night, good-night. Pray for charity, 
Nat. [Exeunt Nathaniel and Sarah Tapp. 

Ann. Ban't Jesse home yet ? 

Michael. Lord knows — I don't. 

Ann. I'm wishful to hear how it went at Westa- 
way's. 

Michael. Be bright, be bright, for God's sake, 
mother ! Put your work by and talk. 

Ann. [Futs down her work and leans forward, vjith 
her elbow on the fable and her hand on her forehead.^ 
Ah, Michael boy — I'd talk, if you'd but heed. If I 
could make you see — on this dark day 

Michael. Never — never! Don't begin that no 
more for I won't hear it. 

Ann. Jesse understands. 

Michael. Understands ! 'Tis he, with his cursed 
sighing and groaning keeps the thing before you 
and serves it up red-hot on every morn. Haven't 
you suffered enough ? [Bitterly.] But well I know 
you'd give yourself up this very hour if I'd let 
you. 

Ann. I've tried to punish myself, Michael — with 
secret rods. 

Michael. [Starting up and walking about.] Curse 
Jesse for that ! 'Tis him that's the green wound- — 
'tis him that won't let the dead rest in his grave. Yet 
you blame me — not him — me — me, that would cut 
my throat to save you a pang. Ban't I somebody. 



68 THE SECRET WOMAN act iv 

too? Ban't my great fight to count, too? Do I 

look at you with eyes like a judge ? Do I ? 

Ann. He can't help it ; he's built so. 
Michael, God keep me from unbuilding him ! 
Ann. Don't rage against Jesse. [Bises and jmts 
her arms round him.] He loves me as well as you do 
in his own way. He wants my spirit to be in peace, 
Michael, 

Michael. Then why for don't he leave it in peace 
and look to his own ? I wish he was dead and in his 
grave. That's the only peace he'll ever know. 

[Breaks from her and strides up and down, 

Ann. [Sighiiig deeply.] He tries to help me, too. 

You be both love mad for your mother. But 'tis 

blind love — cruel love — love that shuts the door of 

Heaven against me. 

Michael. Hell's my home for ever if 'tis yours. 
[Enter Jesse.] And Harter's hell, so long as he be 
in it [points at Jesse]. But I'll fight you and the 
devil both for mother — and beat you both. 
Ann. Michael! 

Michael. Mind it, mind it ; and you mind it, 
mother. So sure as you give yourself up, I'll do for 
myself. And so sure as any other lays a finger on 
you, I'll do for him. From the first I've said it and, 
by God, I mean it ! 

Jesse. If you weren't a fool 

Ann. Don't have no high words to-night, dear 
sons ; don't quarrel to-nigh fc. Words won't change 
what lies between us three. I sinned — I took a 



ACT IV THE SECRET WOMAN 69 

man's life — and there's only Christ between me and 
eternal death now. And you hide me from Him — 
you shield me from the justice of this world, that 
might mean forgiveness in the next. 

Michael. Trust your God then, through thick and 
thin. You're His child ; but you're our mother. 

Ann. Wrong — double wrong was done — by me — 
by you. 

Michael. There was only one right for a son. 

Ann. Truth was the only right. 

Jesse. You won't see truth, mother. 

Ann. I shall feel it through eternity, Jesse. 

Jesse. I'll help you to win peace yet. 

\E71ter Bloom. 

Michael. [To Jesse.] Who be you to croak of 
peace ? 

Bloom. Hast told 'em. Mister Jesse ? 

Jesse. I've told nothing. 

Bloom. Then I'm full of news ! Barbara Westaway 
have took the hoss-doctor. No doubt to save her 
father 'twas done. Arscott blazed it out afore the 
creditors. [Ann returns to her ivork, 

Michael. Old Joe's weathered the storm again then. 

Ann. Have you had your supper, Jesse ? 

Jesse. I want no supper. T want you. 

Bloom. It spoilt the fun, because all ended in 
laughter and sherry wine. But nobody offered me a 
drop. 

Michael. You shall drink yet. [Gets his hat. 

Ann. [Tb Jesse.] Did Barbara bear up pretty brave ? 



70 THE SECRET WOMAN act iv 

Bloom. She's so proud as a peacock about it, 
ma'am. 

Michael. We'll pop across to Watchett Hill. 
Won't take a minute. JSTo talk of devils and hell there 
anyway. [To Jesse.] If I get drunky, 'tis your fault. 

Ann. Michael ! 

Michael. Just to wish Barbara luck, mother. 
Old Joe will have his brandy bottle out to-night. 
Come on, Bloom — stir your stumps ! 

[£xeunt Michael and Bloom. 

Jesse. He's right there. Harter's a dark hole 
nowadays. 

Ann. Do others find it dark? Be there any dark- 
ness but mine ? 

Jesse. I'm trying hard to bring you light, mother. 

Ann. Hope is the only light. Trouble be but froth 
on life's flood, while there's hope. 'Tis the horror of 
losing Heaven that makes all dark. For her that's 
lost Heaven, the little trials of saints and martyrs be 
nought, Jesse. She envies them. 

Jesse. If there's a Heaven, none can lose it. A 
great thing's happened to me to-day. 

Ann. [Bising.] Eat first and talk afterwards. Get 
up to your chamber and tidy yourself. I'll fetch you 
some supper. 

Jesse. It happened all in a flash. I never meant 
it. Like enough you'll say 'twas a miracle, mother. 
[Goes up stairs.] But I pray 'tis good. 

[JSxit up stairs. 

Ann. Yes, yes — if you say so. 



ACT IV THE SECRET WOMAN 71 

[Ann clears a part of the table. Then she goes 
off. After a brief pause Salome enters. 
She looks about her, marks the empty 
kitchen and notes Ann's work on the table ^ 
She goes to door and listens. Then she 
comes hack to the centre of the room. 
Jesse appears at top of stairs. 
Jesse. You ! [Comes down quickly. 

Salome, Do she know you've told me ? 
Jesse. Not yet. 

Salome. Get you gone then. I see her alone. 
Jesse. [Considers.'] It might be best. I was just 

going to tell her ; but Come to it gently. She's 

very sad. A woman's pity — a godsend to her to-night. 
Salome. Be Michael out o' the way ? 
Jesse. [Picks up hat and prepares to go.] He's gone 
to wish Barbara joy. I bless you for this, Sally. 
[Door opens slowly.] 'Twas good to come to her so 
quick. 

[Exit Jesse as Anne enters,, She carries a tray 
with some cold meat on a plate, bread and 
a heavy knife on a trencher, a jug of beer, 
and a mug. There are also a cruet and a 
knife and fork on the tray, 
Anne. [Standing still at sight 0/ Salome.] Why, my 
dear ! What does this mean ? [Looks upstairs.^ 

Jesse ! Here's 

Salome. He's gone out. I don't want him. 
Ann. [Puts down tray on the table.] He's had no 
food since noon and be full of some great matter. So 



72 THE SECRET WOMAN act iv 

Barbara's tokeued to Arscott ? I hope 'tis no ugly 
buying and selling ? 

Salome. [Suddenly.] Ban't there bloodstains on the 
liuen when you sew ? [Anne di-ops her ivork and stares 
at Salome.] I've come knowing the black truth of 
you, Ann Red vers. 

Ann. [^4 great breath escapes her.] Poor Jesse — 
'twas that ! I prayed he'd be led to it — the last hope 
for me. 

Salome. Killed him — killed Anthony Redvers. 

[They stand loith the table between them. 

Ann. To hear it in another mouth — and that mouth 

a woman's. 'Tis like a dream ! I Be merciful, 

Salome. Be just. True mercy — not false. 

Salome. I'd put the rope round your neck with my 
own hands ! 

Ann. Then go to them that will. For a soul's sake 
— to save a soul ! Do it quickly — this night — while 
you can. 

Salome. Who was she ? 

Ann. I asked him and he wouldn't tell ! " Thank 
God you don't know," he said. 

Salome. Know now then, you cold-blooded, man- 
killing fiend ! I — I was his secret woman — I that 
stand here ! I loved every breath of his voice, every 
hair of his head. His good was mine — and his evil. 
I blessed my lot that I could kiss away a little of his 
troubles, I worshipped him; I prayed to him. He 
was my sun, and air. and food. I only nursed my 



ACT IV THE SECRET WOMAN 73 

flesh to keep it plump and sweet for him^ His very, 
very own I was — a part of himself ; and all my light 
and joy you killed when you killed him — all — all. 
I'm his widow — not you. 'Tis I that suffered till my 
bones very near came through my skin — not you. 
'Tis I that roamed the hills and cursed God — not you. 
To the light you wear your black — mine's hid against 
my bosom ! [She fears open her cotton frock and reveals 
hlacJc beneath it.] 'Tis out now — 'tis ended — -I've 
revenged him. [Ann's intense spiritual excitement and 
hope give p>lc(,ce to mere interest and astonishment during 
this speech. She gazes almost stupidly at Salome. 
When the speech is spoken, Ann broods in silence. Her 
eyes traverse Salome darkly and curiously. They look 
through her and ravish her,] Be you dumb ? Be you 
frozen, you murderess? 

Ann, [Displaying no emotion and no spark of anger.] 
You — you at the very gates of Harter ! Be what the 
men like never known to us ? Poor girl ! And you 
hid it after. What is there we can't hide ? 

Salome. Nought beyond the time. 'Tis you shall 
suffer now, you flint-hearted wretch. They'll put you 
away if there's justice in the world. I've given you 
up. Your time's short. They'll tear you out of this 
to-night. [Anne lifts her hands to Heaven and forgets 
Salome.] For hate — for everlasting hate I done it. 

Ann. Not the hate of women nor the hands of men 
can hurt me, Salome. What be the hate of this world 
to her that has lost the next ? Do you know what is 
is to let the devil slip into your heart to steal your 



74 THE SECRET WOMAN act iv 

soul ? You poor, broken thing, I've prayed for this 
to happen night and day. And now 'tis come. Dark 
are the Lord's ways and wonderful. 

Salome, Never name your Lord to me — for hate, I 
say. 

Ann. Your woman's hate do stand for God's love. 

Salome. What love should you have that killed 
Anthony ? Be your bloody soul worth saving ? 

[Uoiter Jesse in haste and fear. 

Jesse, Police have driven up from Okehamp- 
ton 

Anne. The messengers 

Jesse. Mother, you haven't ? 



Salome. 'Twas I. Get her bonnet and shawl. 
They won't let her out of their sight no more. 

Ann. The Lord have used my son to save me. 

[Enter the police ; an Inspector and two con- 
stable8» 

Jesse. Yonder woman's daft. [Poioits at Salome. 

Ann. God called : she was bound to hear. 

Inspector. I have a warrant to 

Ann. I know it, neighbour. 

Jesse. It shan't be, mother ! 

Ann. Thank God it shall be, Jesse. 

Jesse. Michael ! Michael ! 

Ann. [To Inspector.] Come, friend. Hate have 
done what love could not. So God works. [To 
Salome.] If a sinful woman's prayer can reach the 

Throne for you [Kisses Jesse.] Tell Michael 

that his mother be in peace at last. 



ACT IV THE SECRET WOMAN 75 

[Takes shawl from settle and puts it over her 
head. The Inspector goes out. The two 
policemen loalk one on each side of Ann 
and she goes out in obvious joy between 
them. 
Jesse. Mother — mother ! 

[Hastens out, Salome buttons her dress and 
stands and listens. She picks up her sun- 
bonnet and is about to go when Jesse 
returns. 
Jesse. Tell me ! 

Salome. They wouldn't believe it, but I made 'em. 
I hope they'll kill her. 
Jesse. Are you mad ? 

Salome. [Shakes her head.] Only cursed tired. 
'Tis funny — I can scarce keep my eyes open. 
Jesse. You traitor ! 

Salome. Not I. Faithful — faithful to him always. 
Would that I'd let her be. 

Jesse. Speak clear if you know how. 
Salome. I've let her out of hell and Ann Redvers 
be going to pray to her brave God to forgive 
me ! Better she prayed for you, you poor slack- 
twisted shadow. [Jesse snakes frantic questioning 
gesture.] You, that can't keep red secrets — you, 
that don't believe in souls ! Here's a better tale 
than yours. Meat for your master was I — your 
' nameless harlot ' — your father's jewel — his joy — his 
own. Ah ! Now 'tis your turn, you poor wretch. 
Jesse. Unsay it ! 



76 THE SECRET WOMAN act iv 

Salome. She went like a girl to her lover. Did 
you see the light on her face? Did you sec her 
eyes? 

Jesse. 'Tis death, Salome. 

Salome. I meant it so. But 'tis life — life for her — 
dust and ashes for me. 

Jesse. 'Tis death, I tell you. What's there left 
now ? 'Tis I that have given her up, not you. 'Tis 
I have put her away. You hid from me ; you lied to 
me — you've done for me — I that loved you so true. 
All gone — all — every hope — every straw to catch it. 

Salome. Think of yourself — always yourself. The 
way of your folk. The way of your mother and her 
soul. But it wasn't his way — not my Anthony's. 

Jesse. 'Twas for mother I fought, for mother I 
came to you — that you might make her burden 
lighter. 

Salome. Be glad then. For I've took her burden 
off. Her God was on her side, wasn't He? I 
meant to break her. But she laughed at me — same 
as I laugh at you. 

Jesse. I'll fight no more. 

Salome. Fight for your soul. Believe Ann Redvers. 
Souls be the only standby for the likes of you. 
[Michael and Bloom heard talking outside.^ Here's 
Michael ! 

Jesse. Oh, that I had been a steadfast fool like him. 

Salome. Souls are more than sons, or mothers, or 
lovers. I said you and me might die together. We 
shall be dust afore his rage in a minute. 



ACT IV THE SECRET WOMAN 77 

Jesse. Get gone then for God's sake ! 

[Goes to door. 
Salome. Be you afeared? Who shall be feared 
that have a soul ? You'll be in Heaven afore your 
mother yet ! Let Michael put me to sleep — I'd thank 
him. [Enter Bloom and Michael. 

Michael. [Market merry. ^ Hullo Sally ! More 
good luck — eh? But me and Bloom have had a 
skinful with your father to-night. And damned 
strong we had it too. Bloom's a goner. 

Bloom. [Fresh.'] He — he — he ! A ' skinful ' be a 
very clever word ! Brandy's the boy for me ! It 
goeth for 'e like a tiger ! 

Michael. Be it good luck, you two ? 
Salome. You can wish your mother good luck. 
She's happy — she's got her way. 

Michael. Well done her. A brother must have a 
kiss, Sally ! [Approaches Salome to kiss her. 

Salome. You'll find your mother to Okehampton in 
the lock up. I've saved her soul. They've took her 
for the murder of her husband a year ago. All my 
brave work ! Now kiss me ! 

[Michael regards Jesse, and his face changes 
from happiness to horror. 
Jesse. 'Tis truth. I told her. 

[Michael /a^^s hack a step to the table. His 
eyes are only on Jesse. Then he picks 
up the bread-knife from the trencher. 
Jesse crosses his arms and waits for his 
brother, Michael, ivith a loud and in- 



78 THE SECRET WOMAxN act iv 

articulate sound, dashes at Jesse and 
catches him round the neck. But Bloom 
catches Michael round the v:aist and 
Salome seizes his right hand vnth the 
Icnifey as he sicings it back to strike. The 
knife falls. Jesse gets clear of the othe/'s. 
Michael strtiggles, Salome helps Bloom 
to hold him hack. 

Bloom. Run — run for God's sake — us weak worms 
can't hold him ! 

Jesse. I'll spare you that, Michael boy ! 

[Goes outj leaving the dooi' open behind him. 
Michael throws Salome off. She falls and 
rises quickie/. Then Michael, noiv beside 
himself strikes Bloom in the face and 
brings him to his knees. He tears Bloom's 
hands aivay from his legs andj is free. 
He starts for door. At this moment a gun 
is heard to fire lohence Jesse has gone. 
Michael stops his rush and. stands motion- 
less. The eyes of all three are tihrned to 
the open door. A zuhiff of smoke drifts 
through it. 

Bloom. [On one knee.] He's done you ! 

[He rises and hastens off. Michael follows 
Bloom quickly. 

Curtain. 



ACT V 

Scene : The parlour at Watchett Hill Farm. There is 
ajire in the grate and a large, dog-eared arm-chair 
beside it. A kettle stands upon the hob. Red 
curtains have taken the place of the old ones. The 
walls are newly papered and the room, has become 
comfortable in every way. The pictures are set 
straight ; there is a n^ew carpet on the floor „ Two 
small lamps stand on the mantelpiece. In a corner, 
on a little table, is a big photograph of William 
Arscott in a showy frame* The time is night. 
Joseph Westaway discovered walking up and 
down the room. He exhibits deep anxiety and looks 
at his watch. Then he goes to the ivindow and 
throtvs it open. There is bright moonlight outside. 

Westaway. [Calling into the night.] Be that you, 
Barbara ? 

Barbara. Yes, father. I'm waiting for William. 
Westaway. Surely to God the news be out. 'Tis 
almost more than a body can bear to bide like this ! 
[Enter Barbara, iShe looks round the room, 
shakes a curtain, and moves a lamp, 
Barbara. He won't know this room, William won't. 

79 



80 THE SECRET WOMAN act v 

Light your pipe, father ; don't tramp the new carpet. 
You can't hasten it. 

Westaway. I've a'most lost sight of all our blessings 
afore these terrible times at Harter. 

Barbara. We must have another lamp — to show 
up this corner — just for once. We'll have a blaze — 
to please William. 

Westaway. [Going to window,] The verdict and 
sentence were to be out hours agone. 

Barbara. Don't fuss yourself, my old dear. Very 
likely William will have heard. And I do hope you'll 
show him your grateful feelings, father. There's 
more than five pounds gone on this room. 

Westaway. He knows all I feel about it. Either 
Joshua Bloom was to come over first thing, or else 
Nathaniel Tapp. Mrs, Tapp promised faithful one 
should come the moment they heard. 

Barbara, If 'tis good news, Nathaniel will bring 
it; if 'tis bad, you may count on Bloom, [Goestodooi- 
and calls offt] Salome, fetch in the little pink lamp 
will 'e? I want a bit more light, to show William 
all we've done in the parlour. 

Westaway. I think more of Michael than her. 
She's made her peace with God whatever happens — 
but him — poor wretch ! The world be very empty 
for him now. 

Barbara. I don't pity him. He'd have killed his 

rother himself in another moment, and he never 

denied it. [Enter Salome with a lamp.] 'Tis that 

poor, dead, weak-witted Jesse I'm sorry for — not 



ACTv THE SECRET WOMAN 81 

Michael — nor yet his mother. Put it here — to show 
up William's photo. My ! we do look fine ! Don't 
you forget to say a word of thanks, Salome, 

Westaway. [At window,] There's a man coming 
now and travelling fast. 

Barbara. 'Tis William if he goeth quickly. They 
chaps from Harter be slow as beetles. [Goes out. 

Westaway. Don't keep him if he's got the news. 
It have been a terrible day. I hope I'll never be 
called to live through such another. All suffer for 
evil — none can stand alone afore it. 

\_Enter William and Barbara. 

Barbara. William hasn't heard. It wasn't known 
when he came away, [Exit Salome. 

Arscott. [Looking round,] Well, my old bird, 
what do 'e think of this ? 'Tis a bit braver than it 
used to be — eh ? We'll have a pianer yet, instead of 
that ' roarer ' in the corner. 

Westaway, 'Tis a royal palace, William! 'Tis a 
dazzling scene, and us shan't never go or come without 
blessing you, Tm sure. 

Arscott. [Lighting his pipe,] Pretty clever, no 
doubt — thanks to my purse and Barbara's fingers. 
Well, the wedding's in sight, Joe, 

Westaway, I know — I know. Thank God my girl 
won't be far ofi". You must let her come up every day 
of her life, William — aye, and sleep sometimes in her 
old chamber. ' 

Arscott. So she shall. When we quarrel, I'll pack 
her ojQf to you, 

F 



82 THE SECRET WOMAN act v 

Barbara. It takes two to quarrel, Billy, 

Westaway. I ban't all I could wish to-night, along 
of the fearful trouble in the air. A very terrible 
thing, and till we know how 'tis to end, there's no 
peace for anybody. [Exit. 

Arscott. 'Twill be brought in manslaughter — no 
worse than that, [Sits in a big chair hy the Jire.] 
Come and pitch on my lap, Barbara — there's a dear. 
I like to feel the fine weight of 'e. Only a fortnight 
now ! You don't want to cry off your bargain ? 

Barbara, [Puts out the lam}) in the corner,^ Cry 
off? Not I — I love you dearer and dearer, William. 

Arscott. A mortal pity you wasted ten years, 
Barbara. 

Barbara. We'll make up for 'em ! 

[She sits on his knee and he kisses her and 
ruhs his face against hers. 

Arscott. How's your sister going on 2 This must 
have shook her a bit. To think of her nipping down 
in cold blood to give that woman up ! 

Barbara. 'Twasn't in cold blood — 'twas in hot. 
She won't tell about it and 'tis too ticklish a subject 
for father or me. But I can see very well how 'twas 
really. Mrs. Bedvers hungered terribly to give 
herself up — for the saving of her soul. 

Arscott. Yes, she'd feel like that, no doubt. 

Barbara. But her boys wouldn't let her. They 
made her swear she never would. And then Jesse, 
poor chap, goes daft and hits upon the thought to 



ACT V THE SECRET WOMAN 83 

tell Salome and make her tell again — for his mother's 
salvation. 

Arscott. a very clever thought, I call it. 
Barbara. Stark madness, knowing Michael. 
Arscott. Your sister must be made of tougher 
stuff than you, Barbara. 

Barbara. She's a queer girl. I don't know 
nothing about her inside her skin. 

Arscott. I wonder Michael didn't strangle her. 

[The face of Joshua Bloom appears at the 
window. 
Bloom. [Clears his throat* Barbara starts away^ 
hut Arscott holds her tightly.] I ban't looking. 

Arscott. 'Tis only that old night-bird from Harter. 
Come in, Joshua, come in ! 

[Barbara leaves her lover and goes to the 
doorg 
Barbara. He brings the news for certain. Oh, I 
hope 'tis good I 

Arscott. It can't be good. Bad's the best. 

[Barbara hurries out, Arscott rises and goes 
across, 
Arscott. [Galling off.] Here's Joshua Bloom from 
Harter, Joe ! 

[Enter Baubara followed by Bloom. 
Bloom. You must listen patient. I ban't going to 
say it all anyhow and spoil it. 'Tis the chance of a 
lifetime to tell a tale like this. 

Barbara. Father's cruel put about. 

[Enter Joseph W^STAyf ay followed by Salome, 



84 THE SECRET WOMAN act v 

Westaway. Ah! Joshua — thank God you be 
here! 

Bloom. Sit you down — all of you — and let me 
stand in the midst with my solemn news. And don't 
you try to hurry me, 'cause I won't be hurried. 

Westaway. The Law — 

Bloom. I be ashamed of the Law ! Tapp heard it 
first. A telegraph come to the Vicarage a good bit 
ago, but you know what a close man is reverence is. 
However, it slipped out of the back door to the 
people, and everybody knows it now. 

Arscott. Know's what ? 

Bloom. The jury was a bit soft and showed a very 
great sympathy with the prisoner, because the woman 
pleaded guilty. * Woman ' I call her ; but of course 
to us she's still Ann Redvers of Harter. And leaning 
to the side of mercy, they fetched it in manslaughter ; 
because she said she never meant to kill him. The 
terrible judge believed it too, and the upshot is that 
she don't die. That's how the Law gets weaker and 
weaker — along of they baggering Dissenters ! Five 
years of penal servitude Ann Redvers have been sent 
to ; but they say, if she's as good as gold in prison, 
they may let her free in less. I call it playing with 
justice and a poor look out for husbands ; but that's 
how it stands — a paltry five year ! 

[All listen with varying interest. 

Westaway. Thank God ! 'tis a cruel weight ofi' my 
shoulders. 

Arscott. I'm sorry for her all the same. 



ACT V THE SECRET WOMAN 85 

Bloom. More than she was for herself. I lay she 
feels very near as disappointed as what I do. 'Twas 
a mean-spirited sentence in my opinion. 

Westaway. She'll sing in clink, like a caged lark, 
now her soul be saved. 

Bloom. No, she won't. She'll spend all her spare 
time on her knees praying for Jesse's soul. His death 
shook her a bit, I can tell 'e. 

Westaway. And t'other woman's name never come 
up in the argument ? 

Bloom. None knows it. She must have found the 
newspapers pretty hot reading — eh ? 

Barbara. She've had her wormwood, if she loved 
Anthony. 

Westaway. To think that one, nameless, scarlet 
female should be thrown into a family, like a cannon- 
ball, to kill off a generation and send strong men to 
the grave ! 

Bloom. And I'll dare swear the shameless wretch 
goes to church in her frill-de-dills with the best of us, 
and makes eyes at the males and has 'em trailing 
after her like a comet's tail ! 

Arscott. They ought to catch her and stone her. 
'Tis she killed the men : 'tis her damned work. 

Bloom. They easy women will be up to any 
devilries 'tis said. Thank God I've 'scaped 'em. 

Arscott. Enough ! 'Tis a thirsty subject and I 
want cheering, [Exit Barbara. 

Westaway. Have a drink afore you go, Joshua. 

Bloom. [Pickmg up his hat.] Nay I'm for the 



86 THE SECRET WOMAN act v 

village. This thing have gob to be rolled on the 
tongue a bit yet. 

Arscott. You're a snarling old dog, Bloom — poor 
company for a bridegroom. 

Bloom. I never can abide a hopeful fool. 

Westaway. But William's right. Sorrow ban't 
spilled over every page of life and we must laugh 
with the happy as well as mourn with the sad. 
Christ's self could smile on a wedding. 

\Enter Barbara with glasses and bottle on 
tray, Salome helps her. 

Arscott. Aye, and help the feast and give the folk 
joy. Bloom here — he'd turn the wine into water if 
he could. 

Bloom. I won't cry peace when there's no peace ; 
but if you ax me to the wedding, I'll be there. 

Westaway. You shall come, Joshua Bloom. 

Bloom. Good night all, then. And don't number 
your chickens till they be hatched, hoss-doctor. 
You may be cut down afore the day yet. 

[Exit Bloom. 

Arscott. The tale be told, and us have all got to 
go on living, except them that are dead. 

Westaway. [Getting a long churchwarden pipe from 
mantelshelf.^ To think that big-hearted Anthony — so 
generous as the sun — so ready to bring happiness to 
young and old — 

Arscott. A man built of comfortabler mud I never 
neighboured with. 



ACT V THE SECRET WOMAN 87 

Barbara. Always whistling, or else laughing. It 
warmed you to meet him on a winter day. 

Arscott. His light o' love felt the same no doubt. 
I'll warrant he was good to her. I'd give my best 
gaiters to know who 'twas. [Exit Salome. 

Barbara. [Pouring water from the kettle.] You'll 
have it hot, father ? 

Westaway, Hot and strong both. This bit o' 
work have knocked the stuffing out of me a lot. It 
cuts every way, for us all depend on each other, like 
the ears of corn in the harvest field, or the little bees 
in the butt. 

Arscott. It have hit your girl hard by the look of 
her. 

Westaway. It have. She done her duty and little 
thought what awful things would come of it. 

Barbara. She's tongue-tied now. We never hear 
her voice. 'Tis like a dumb woman in the house. 

Arscott. 'Tis pretty well known that dead boy 
loved her. 

Barbara. But she cared nought for him. 

Arscott. Did you think it was right now, to bury 
the poor chap with Christian burial beside his 
father ? 

Westaway. Most certain sure, William. The 
Lord turned him daft — poor soul — so as he should 
let out the secret to our Salome. That's how I read 
it. Then she went hot-foot. And now she mourns 
in secret. But God willed it so. 

[Barbara gives her father his drink. 



88 THE SECRET WOMAN act v 

Barbara. What will Michael do ? 

[Gives Arscott his dmnk. 

Arscott. Wait for her ! Wait — on the prison 
steps if he could. Wait, if 'tis till the Trump of 
Doom. Let the world spin as it may, Time stands 
still for that man till he's got his mother again. 

[Enter Salome. 

Barbara. [Looking at )Salome.] No more of it to- 
night, William. 

Arscott. You're right, my r.weeting ; and if 'tis a 
crime to be cheerful, the Lord'll forgive lovers. 
Stir my sugar with 3'our finger. 

[Barbara sits by William Arscott and sips 
his drink. Salome goes to window and 
looks out. 

Barbara. Draw they curtains and shut out that 
gashly moonlight, Salome. 

Westaway. [Going to Salome.] Us must cheer you 
up now, my Sally. 'Tis a brave, still night, and 
Halstock Glen full o' fairies. 

Barbara. Full of ghosts I should think. [Shivers.^ 
I'll swear there's one haunted woman creeps there 
sometimes. 

Westaway. And belike poor Anthony doth walk, 
for 'tis said that spirits turn ever where they had 
theii' greatest joy. 

Arscott. Leave it, Joe ! We don't want the creeps! 
Enough, or I'll be gone. It might be woi'se, and it 
couldn't be better ; so let them smart that deserve it, 



ACT V THE SECRET WOMAN 89 

and we'll thank the Lord 'tis nothing to us. Bemember 
a fortnight hence. 

[Salome still looks oufat the moonlight. The 
other three talk together. The men drinh 

Westaway. Of course I give her away. My Sunday 
black be equal to it — with a brave favour in the 
buttonhole. 

Baebaka. But you must have a new hat, father. 
Your best one's a disgrace. 

Arscott. *Tis a pity if customers can't furnish a 
hoss-doctor with carriages cheap on such a day. Grey 
bosses too ! Us '11 be pulled for love by my grateful 
patients ! [They laugh, 

Westaway. I be going to ask every one of they 
creditors to the feast. 

Barbara. You mustn't call 'em creditors no more, 
father. 

Westaway. Thanks to William, here. A crown of 
glory, I'm sure, to owe no man anything and die so 
innocent as you was born. 

[Barbara pours more drink. 

Arscott. Let's have a song! Oome on, Barbara, 
I know you can sing with the best of 'em Haven't I 
watched you hollering in the choir to church scores 
o' times ? 

Barbara. Nay — nay — Salome's our song-bird. 

Westaway. A rare gift she hath ; but 'tis many a 
long day since she've sung to us now. 

Arscott. Sing Salome ! Sing ! 

Barbara. Do 'e, Sally, for old time's sake. 

a 



90 THE SECRET WOMAN act v 

[They turn their heads cmd look at her. She 
still stares out into the moonlight. 
Westaway. Sing, my little heart ! 

[Salome looks at them, a/nd then looks out again 
into the night. After a pause, she clasps 
her hands and sings, in a far-away, gentle 
voice, to ears that are dust. Her listeners 
feel an uneasy injluence. They a/re chilled, 
look into each other's faces, a/nd take no joy 
of the song. 
Salome. 
" Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare, 
All along, down along, out along lee, 
For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair, 
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, 

[Pause. 
Old Uncle Tom Oobleigh and all— 
Old Uncle Tom Oobleigh and all." 



Curtain slowly descends while Salome sings. 



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